If I Could
by S2moviefreak123
Summary: Everyone thinks that the gypsy man in the boat that fateful night was Quasimodo's father. Well, I don't think so, and I'm here to give MY take on Quasimodo's past. In my opinion, we never saw his father, so where was he? Where is he now? Please read
1. An Ordinary Morning

An Ordinary Morning

Hi, this is my first attempt at a Hunchback of Notre Dame fanfic, so please be kind and review (if I get no reviews, I do not post more. that's that.) Okay, now for the summary. You know how everyone assumes that the gypsy man in the boat with Quasi's mother was his father...yeah, I don't think he was. I mean gypsy man with dark hair and eyes + gypsy woman with dark hair and eyes white child with red hair and blue eyes. That does not add up to me, so this is MY take on Quasi's parents' past. Hope you all enjoy, and I really really hope you review because I've not had good luck with reviews lately. But anyway, enjoy please!! And if you don't, tell me so I can fix it. Thank you:)

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The sun awoke on the horizon, welcoming a new dawn, as was its habit most mornings. Its rays reached across the landscape of Paris, a woman's gentle fingers extending their warmth. House to house, street to street, tree to tree, she arrived to awaken her children, the ever reliable, ever warm and loving mother. 

Higher and higher she climbed, brighter and brighter she shone, her fingers caressing her children, her warmth and light waking them from slumber. As she rose into the sky, only one child remained which she had not greeted with light. Her tardiness was not due to lack of love for this particular son; on the contrary, it was so that her light could shine the brightest for him.

This son needed not the sun's light to awaken. No, he was always awake long before she was; such is the purpose of roosters, larks, and most other birds, his purpose, as it had been since childhood, was to assist the mother sun in the waking the rest of her children. And just as the nightingale will forever sing with the moon, the bell ringer faithfully rang his bells at the sun's first light. Such is his fate and choice. Such is his pain and pleasure.

His father, the Holy Spirit. His mother, the sun. His sisters, the bells. The only family he would ever know.

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This bell ringer, whose name is known by all in Paris through either acquaintance or rumors, began his day this way by habit. The first twenty years of his life, this had been an escape. Now it was duty; a duty to the aforementioned family, and to the people of Paris who had welcomed him into their world nearly a year ago. 

His newfound freedom, which allowed him to leave the bell tower without fear, was rarely acted upon. Despite protests from his friends, Quasimodo, as he will henceforth be referred, refused to join his gypsy brethren in the Court of Miracles or get his own place outside the cathedral.

How could he ever leave the only home he ever knew, where he could be closest to the Father? How could he leave his beloved sisters without anyone to care for them? How could he neglect his duty to his mother, the sun? Never would he abandon his only family.

Such was his thoughts on this ordinary morning. They were interspersed with thoughts of the visit he expected that day, from his friends, whose names had also been spread throughout Paris. Yes, local celebrities they had become: Esmeralda, Phoebus, and…

"Quasi?" a female voice broke him from his thoughts.

Esmeralda. The voice belonged to the woman he had loved, and who was now married to his best friend. They had been married in the Court of Miracles not even a month ago, with Quasimodo as Phoebus' best man. Never would Quasi tell the woman he loved and would always love how severely she had broken his heart. Forever he would be sincerely happy for his friends, hiding the pain he felt whenever they were together.

"Quasi?!" the voice called again, much louder and persistent this time. Broken from thought once again, Quasimodo ran to the stairs of the belfry, and responded this time.

"I'm here, Esmeralda! I-I'm up here." He shouted back, as he descended the steps.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs where Esmeralda and Phoebus were, he opened his arms for the embrace he had come to cherish every morning. No words were exchanged as he gently hugged Esmeralda and not-so-gently shook Phoebus' hand and slapped him on the back: Although he loved them both, Quasi had to have some way to cope with the heartache he felt because Esmeralda chose to love Phoebus over him, and he figured that a bit of good-natured revenge was the perfect way to vent.

"Uh…it's good to see you, Quasi," Phoebus half-spoke, half-groaned as he massaged his injured hand. "Where were you? Esmeralda's been calling you for about five minutes straight."

With a hint of apology and guilt in his voice, the bell ringer merely stated, "I was thinking."

"Really, what were you thinking about that so occupied your mind?" Esmeralda teased, as the climbed back into the belfry to converse in private.

Quasimodo wasn't sure what to tell her. Would she find it foolish that he had been thinking such things about family and love? What would a guy like him need to think of such things for?

"Um…well, I was thinking about all sorts of things…" Quasi said, trying to tiptoe around the subject without actually lying in church, "By the way, how's married life been treating you guys so far?"

Esmeralda and Phoebus exchanged coy glances, clasped each other's hand, and softly giggled. Quasi had to struggle not to roll his eyes at their childish behavior, all the while wishing he could share the moments with a loved one that caused them to act in such a way.

"That great, huh?" Quasi stated with a hint of bitterness in his voice, well-hidden behind a façade of cheerfulness. Although he really was happy for them, he resented the moments when they shamelessly flaunted their love in front of him.

"Well, it's been wonderful, as we've told you before, but…" Esmeralda looked to Phoebus again with the same loving look as she said, "…there's some big news we have to tell you."

Hoping he wouldn't regret it, Quasimodo urged her to continue, "Well, what is it?"

"Well…" Phoebus and Esmeralda stated in semi-unison, "…we might as well come out and say it…"

Leaving him in utter suspense, they waited a few moments until he looked as if he would burst with anticipation.

"We're pregnant."

Never had Quasimodo felt such mixed emotions. First came the happiness, of course, for his friends who were starting their family; then came the sadness, which he felt for the exact same reason. Esmeralda and Phoebus were now officially going to be a family, their love and happiness fortified by the coming of a child, and Quasimodo was never so ashamed. His friends deserved such happiness, and here he was, jealous and bitter that their joy so increasingly exceeded his own; jealous that his friends had now family and love, while he had neither. What kind of friend felt such emotions? Well, the least he could do was to hide those undesired feelings and portray the more positive, expected ones.

"That's wonderful!!" he shouted as he scooped Esmeralda up in an embrace, and subsequently embraced Phoebus.

The rest of the conversation that morning basically consisted of questions and answers about the pregnancy, and before the trio knew it, the morning went with Quasimodo's bitter feelings. Now that the news had sunk in, he couldn't have been happier.

Noon came and went before Quasimodo was aware that he was late to ring the bells. When he realized his tardiness, he practically flew to the ropes, ringing the bells with more fervor than usual, as a way of apology to the many citizens of Paris who relied on his bells as their medieval alarm clock.

As he performed his bell ringer duties, Esmeralda and Phoebus descended from the belfry, unable to stand the volume of the bells. As they descended, an unfamiliar face appeared at the top of the steps into the bell tower. The face was that of a fairly attractive man, wringing a piece of cloth in his hand which Phoebus presumed to be a handkerchief.

"Can we help you?" Phoebus asked the stranger in French. The man seemed disconcerted by the presence of Phoebus, having not yet noticed Esmeralda.

"Uh…can you help me?" the man stated in a thick British accent.

Before the man could speak further, he became aware of Esmeralda's presence. A shadow quickly passed over his eyes as he first noticed her appearance, but was hastily replaced by a smile and "Hello, love."

When neither of his audience replied with more than a blank stare, he continued much more slowly.

"Uh…Parlez-vous l'ainglas?"

Both Phoebus and Esmeralda shook their heads.

"Latin?"

No.

"Italian?"

No.

The poor man looked positively discouraged by this point, realizing that he would have a very difficult time conversing with these people.

"Oh…bloody he-" he began until he remembered that he was in a Church. Crossing himself, he continued mumbling, presumably to himself.

"Of course my brother's son had to be in France. French, the ONLY language I don't know!!" The man groaned, as Phoebus and Esmeralda looked on him in horror.

"Well, I suppose I should have learned some French before coming to France, but…" He turned toward Phoebus, "…what kind of man knows neither English nor Latin, honestly?!"

"Maybe Charles…" he considered something for a while, then decided against it.

"Um…un homme…Quasimodo...?" The man struggled to remember the French he had slept through during his schooling…he had never cared for the language. He pointed to the ground, unable to remember the French word for "here."

Before Esmeralda or Phoebus could even think of a response, a familiar voice came from the top of the belfry stairs.

"I-I'm Quasimodo," he stated in perfect English.

The man looked up at Quasimodo…and did a double-take. Never had he met such an…unusual-looking man. He forced his shock off, climbing the stairs to meet the man he had been searching for.

"Well, well, finally a man who speaks English in this blasted country…" Quasimodo's eyes widened at the man's profanity in his beloved Notre Dame. The stranger rolled his eyes and crossed himself once again, silently cursing his…cursing problem.

"Well, anyway, it is quite a pleasure to finally meet you," the man gushed as he fervently shook the hand of the man in front of him, "You cannot know how much I've heard about you, lately."

Quasimodo allowed his hand to be shaken as he analyzed the jovial man before him. The man had very dark hair and eyes, but his skin was as pale as Quasimodo's own. He was slightly shorter than Phoebus, but a good deal taller than Quasi.

"Um…if you don't mind me asking…what are you here for?" Quasimodo did not know if he could trust this man, and wasn't very comfortable striking up small talk with a stranger.

"Oh, of course…well, this is mostly a matter of duty…which I have only half fulfilled." He let go of Quasimodo's hands and brought his hands to Quasi's shoulders, "And I need you, my boy, in order to fulfill the rest."

"What do you mean, sir?" Quasimodo backed away, disconcerted by the man's physical contact.

The man closed his eyes and sighed, "Maybe we should sit down for this."

From the man's tone, Quasimodo could tell he was right. Whatever he had to say was either bad news, or exceptionally good news.

They went to sit on the steps, as Esmeralda and Phoebus continued to stare in bewilderment, having been all but forgotten for the moment.

"Alright, where do I start?" The man asked himself as he sat to reveal his purpose to Quasi, looking down and wringing his hands. Looking up into Quasimodo's eyes, he continued…

"My name is Walter Auckland. I am thirty-two years of age, and I come from London, England. The reason I am here concerns my mother's dying request, which of course I cannot deny." He once again placed a hand on Quasimodo's right shoulder. Unlike the first time, Quasi made no resistance, putting his focus solely on the man's words, not his actions.

"This also concerns my older brother and…his son." Walter Auckland seemed to hesitate as Quasi's expression became more intrigued.

"Please go on," Quasimodo urged as the lull between words became too much to bear.

"Yes…well, you see my brother, Charles, was locked away in prison about twenty or twenty-one years ago…how old are you?"

Quasimodo was definitely not ready for such a change in subject and had no idea what it had to do with anything, but politely answered anyway, "Twenty-one."

"Ah…okay, twenty-one years then. Twenty-one years ago he was locked away, and when my father died, my mother went to release him. Surprisingly, he refused to see her, therefore refused to be released. Now, at the time, I found it quite foolish that he would not be released by mother, but after hearing the dreadful story she told on her death bed…I can hardly blame him." Walter paused briefly and shook his head before continuing, "Anyway, her dying wish was twofold. First, I was to release my brother from prison at all costs…which I did a couple of days ago. I expected him to be difficult, as he had been with mother, but even if he was going to be, he was much too weak to put up much argument. So, I have him with me now. I told the Archdeacon about the situation, and I think he's now praying with your fa…" Walter caught himself before slipping up, and continued despite the astonished look on Quasimodo's face. Quasi couldn't help but hope that he had heard right.

"Ahem…anyway, now for the second part of the promise…right before Charles was sent to prison, it was said that he and his wife had a son…and my mother asked me to reunite my brother with that child…" Walter paused as Quasimodo's hand went to his mouth in shock, his eyes widening.

"We had a very difficult time finding y- the child. We were in England, and all we knew was that he lived in France and was…an odd boy."

A tear began to run down Quasi's face as he braced himself for what was to be said next...had his prayers been answered after all these years?

"Um…I see you already know that the child was…you…" Walter grasped both of Quasimodo's hands as he uttered the fateful words.

"My brother…is your father…" He winced as Quasi gripped his hand much tighter. Quasimodo didn't notice; his head was turned toward Esmeralda and Phoebus, who although had no idea what was being said, could see the look of shock and happiness plastered on Quasimodo's face.

Quasimodo turned back towards Walter, his uncle, as he concluded his statement.

"…Your father is downstairs with the Archdeacon…and I'm sure he would love to meet you at last."

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Love it? Hate it? Want more of it? Please Review and I will post the next chapter very very soon:) 


	2. An Extraordinary Afternoon

**An Extraordinary Afternoon**

Disclaimer: I do own neither the novel nor movie, the Hunchback of Notre Dame. If I did, I'd be rich.

Enjoy and review. Thank you very much.

YamiLPFan: Thank you so much for reviewing AND adding me to your favorites. It is for you that I post this next chapter, because honestly, I get discouraged when I feel like no one cares. So, thank you and I hope I get to hear from you again :)

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Esmeralda and Phoebus would later declare, as it would be said for years to come, that no bird could fly through the air as swiftly as Quasimodo soared down the steps of Notre Dame that day. Although still oblivious to the incredible information that had been disclosed only moments ago, Esmeralda could tell that something had both thrilled and distressed him, causing him to act in such a manner. As she followed closely behind him, subsequently pursued by Walter, a dumbfounded Phoebus was left in their wake.

As Walter and Esmeralda neared the base of the steps, they were forced to stop on a dime, for Quasimodo had paused like a deer caught in the headlights. Scanning the cathedral, but not allowing himself to move forward, he searched for the man that was said to be his father.

"Where is he?" Quasi whispered, barely audible, to his alleged uncle.

Wordlessly, Walter descended the stairs and entered the sanctuary, grasping Quasimodo's hand to pull him along. Also wordlessly, Quasi yanked his hand away and backed up three steps.

"What's the matter? Don't you want to see him?" Walter questioned his nephew, appalled that he would be so resistant when he had seemed so excited only moments ago.

After going up three steps, Quasi went up two more, his feet braced as if he were ready to fly just as quickly back up the steps as he had down them. If not for the calming sensation of a gentle, familiar hand on his shoulder, he may have done just that.

"Quasi, I don't understand. What's wrong?" Esmeralda asked as she shot Walter a suspicious, threatening glance.

Calmed considerably by the soothing sound of her voice, Quasimodo disclosed to her what he had been told.

"Esmeralda, you know how I've longed for a family since I…well, could understand the concept of family. And according to that man, my father is right there with the Archdeacon…" Quasi paused as he looked toward the sanctuary and sighed shakily.

"…And I finally have a chance to not only have a family, but a father! But…if it turns out that man was mistaken, or lying, and he's not my father or…what if he doesn't accept me?"

If looks could kill, Esmeralda could have tortured, maimed, and slowly killed Walter with one glance. And, if this was his idea of a cruel joke, and if her friend's hopes and prayers were to be dashed and broken because of it, she silently vowed that she would do just that. That was the solution to one of Quasi's fears. The other one, however, would not so easily be conquered.

_What if he doesn't accept me?_

She looked to her friend, who had ceased his ascent, and was simply leaning against the wall, visibly shaken, as tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

Heaving a sigh of commiseration, Esmeralda silently took Quasimodo's hand; as Quasi looked up into her face, a smile of sheer compassion shined down upon him as the light of Heaven.

"Quasi, who's to say what's going to happen when you meet him? I mean, I certainly can't tell you. But, if you want my opinion…you don't owe this to anyone but yourself. You could go back to the bell tower, never knowing if today would end in happiness or heartbreak; that would certainly be easiest."

Releasing his unsteady hand from her own, Esmeralda reassuringly touched Quasimodo's shoulder, "But just think, who knows what would have happened if I had let you do that a year ago, huh?"

Despite the situation, Quasi allowed himself a small smile as the implication of her words sunk in.

He had felt that any risk he would take in meeting this man was well worth the chance of having a father, but he hadn't been sure; but now that Esmeralda believed so, how could it be otherwise?

"Will you come with me…please?" Quasi whispered; if anything were to go wrong, he didn't want to face the disappointment alone.

Without thinking twice, Esmeralda replied, "Of course."

Chuckling good-humoredly, she held out her hand to him, exactly as she had done to usher him into the outside world. Quasi took it and allowed himself to be led down the steps with, if possible, even more apprehension than he had had that day.

Walter, who had been glancing impatiently at the pair whilst they spoke, heaved a sigh of relief at seeing his nephew coming toward him. He had been worried that the boy would not help him in fulfilling his mother's dying wish, which was the only importance this event held for him; he could really care less about the happiness of his brother or nephew, not because he was a terrible man, but because the aforesaid brother and nephew had been little more than a story to him for twenty-one years.

Walter may have said something, or maybe he would have reached for his nephew's hand once again, if not for the menacing, protective look Esmeralda pierced him with. Instead, he merely backed to the wall of the cathedral and pointed to a spot in the center of the sanctuary. Since childhood he had been afraid of gypsies; everyone knew that gypsies were evil.

Satisfied that Walter would not be a threat, Esmeralda released him from her looming gaze and turned her eyes toward Quasimodo. He did not return the gaze; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten that Esmeralda was even there. Tears forming in his eyes, threatening to fall, Quasimodo looked upon the spot Walter had showed him.

The poor man before him looked absolutely pitiful and broken as he conversed with the Archdeacon. Despite his weakness and age, he bore much resemblance to Quasi, which proved that this man was indeed his father; his hair, his eyes, his facial features, even his body build was not unlike his son's own, albeit the deformity.

If possible, his skin was paler than Quasi's skin was, and his eyes held more pain and tears than Quasimodo's own eyes ever held. On his knees, he seemed to be using all of his strength to keep himself upright. As the Archdeacon rested his hands on his shoulders and mumbled a silent prayer, tears flowed from the man's eyes as he looked upon the statue of the Virgin Mary holding Baby Jesus.

All of Quasimodo's doubts were gone as he felt his heart go out to this pitiful being before him.

"…father…" he whispered to himself as he made his way forward, now leading Esmeralda whose tears were also threatening to fall from happiness for her dear friend.

The Archdeacon was first to notice the pair coming closer, while the man on his knees seemed to be oblivious to all but the statue of the mother and child, despair and bereavement in his eyes. Smiling kindly at the bell ringer, the Archdeacon left the man's side and motioned Quasimodo to draw nearer.

When they were face to face, only five words were uttered by the Archdeacon as he stepped aside, leaving nothing between father and son but an abyss of lost time.

"Go to him, my son."

To both Esmeralda's and Quasi's surprise, he released her hand as he began moving forward - ever so slowly moving forward

As the sound of footsteps drawing nearer seemed to awaken the man from his trance, Quasi braced himself as his father looked up – and looked again. Never had so much pain, longing, happiness, and love shone from one man's eyes at once; never would a purer scene be played out in the course of time.

When his son was within reach, the man leapt from where he kneeled without thinking – and fell down again. Before he could hit the ground, Quasimodo caught him in his arms, all the while father and son never removing their eyes from one another.

After Quasi helped him back to his knees, he poor man gathered his hands in his own, holding them tightly to his chest, tears running from his eyes. He then proceeded to kiss his son's hands fervently, murmuring inaudibly. Although the man's actions seemed to reach the verge of insanity, Quasimodo made no resistance. However, he also did not return the affection; not because he was not elated that this was indeed his father, but because he did not know the man, and would have to know some answers before being able to truly accept him as the man who had given him life…and the husband of the woman who had so selflessly sacrificed hers.

"T-t-they…told me you were **both **dead," his father tearfully spoke at last with a faint hint of a British accent, which had been masked by years of despair and neglect. All Quasi could do was shake his head, for he was not dead, he was right here; he had always been right here.

Looking into his son's eyes once more, the man suddenly brought his child's hands to his forehead and sobbed. He wept for his son…for his wife…for himself.

"I'm so sorry…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…" he repeated amongst his sobs. Although tears had been forming in his eyes, Quasi could not weep; he neither wept nor spoke…what could he say?

"Have they been good to you?" The man asked as his sobs subsided, referring to the ones who had raised his son for him, their names and faces unknown to him.

"Yes…yes, I've been alright" Quasi stated, unwilling to add to his father's grief by telling him that he had been treated as a monster, locked away from the world because his father had not been there to protect him…to protect his mother.

Why had he not been there to protect her? To care for him? It was clear that he had been imprisoned but…what for? What had happened that made his father feel obligated to apologize so ardently?

"Sir…" Quasi stated to get his father's attention, unable to call the man "father" until he had received answers to these burning questions.

Once again gazing into his son's eyes, the man's eyes filled with tears as a sad smile graced his lips.

"You certainly have her voice, darling…" He stopped as he noticed his son's uneasy expression, "Sorry…I just…that's what I used to call you…"

His uneasy appearance was quickly replaced by pity and longing as he took his father's hands to his chest.

"I need to know…" Quasi spoke slowly, his eyes begging for answers he'd been searching for all his life, "…what happened?"

"But…" his father began to protest, "…why must we…"

"Before I can ever call you father, I have to know what happened to our family…why this happened…" Quasi stated more bluntly than he had ever stated anything before, "…please tell me."

The man sighed, hurt that his son could not yet call him "father," yet understanding why.

"Where should I start?" he asked, resigning himself to what he knew he had to do…he owed his son at least that.

Quasimodo's eyes filled with anticipation and wonderment; he would finally know where he came from, and maybe even why he was born the way he was.

"Tell me everything."

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Next Chapter will be the start of Quasi's and his parents' past. Ah…the suspense. Do you want more? Do you? Then review. For every review I get, I write one chapter. That is my policy cough which may be why my other fanfic has not been updated yet cough lol. 


	3. Unfortunate Beginnings

**YamiLPfan**: Thank you for the review J You really thought that Quasi's father was going to reject him? Well, I guess you don't know about the past (yet….), so you don't really know Charles' character. Many people will reject Quasi and his family in my story, but they won't reject each other :) Anyway, thank you for your continued interest in my story and I hope to hear more from you.

**Erin**: Wow, thank you so much for the praise!! I love stories about Quasi's past, too! But there aren't enough of them out there (are there any, actually?) so I decided to write one myself. I've been contemplating his past for a while anyway. Thank you so much for your interest in my story, and I hope this chapter continues to please :)

**Opaque Opal**: Thank you for the review. Yeah, most people assume that Quasi's father was the guy in the boat, and he might have been. This story is just my opinion. By the way, I've been reading your fan fiction (I will review soon), and I don't see where you mention Quasi's father. Maybe I just missed it, I'll have to read it over again I guess. Anyway, thank you so much for the review

RaeAngel: Wow, thank you for the praise! You are so kind. I hope you continue to enjoy the story and I hope to see another review from you soon :)

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I do own all of these characters that are not in the book nor movie. **

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Unfortunate Beginnings

If one is to truly understand the tale of misfortune disclosed to Quasimodo that day, one must first familiarize himself with Peter Auckland II, the patriarch of the Auckland family line.

Being an only child, his parents' death had left him with insurmountable wealth, allowing him to live well into manhood without ever experiencing the unpleasantness that is manual labor.

Although Peter may have had some redeeming qualities as a young boy, decades of pampering and self-seclusion had desensitized him to the feelings and thoughts of others, as well as strengthened his egotism which had been bred within him from infanthood. By adulthood, the blackness of his heart could only be matched by the darkness of his black hair and eyes, and any respectable qualities that may have atoned for his many critical flaws had all but disappeared through the course of time.

His flaws were not few and trivial by any means; in fact, never had so many of the deadly sins been embodied in a single Catholic man. Envious and greedy to the core, Peter took immense pride in being the single richest and most powerful man in England, his wealth and power rivaling even that of the King. Notorious as an eloquent philanderer, his bed was rarely empty, yet his hunger for women's flesh was rarely satisfied. These shortcomings in his character, although infuriating to certain fathers and husbands, were not what condemned Mr. Auckland in the eyes of every citizen in London; the flaws aforesaid were no more than those of any other rich man in England.

No, what caused the condemnation and fear that surrounded the name of Auckland was his dangerous vehemence and fury. First discovered at the age of sixteen, when a rumor spread that a young women he had been courting had been beaten to death by his hand for not accepting his invitation into bed, his wrath was not a thing to be taken lightly. By the age of thirty, it was understood by all in England, and some parts of France, that Peter Auckland's word was to be law, his request a command, his disapproval a death sentence.

Although his rage was well-known, his immense wealth was even more wide-spread. A newcomer to London, a father of three daughters who knew the latter trait while ignorant of the other, called upon the Auckland manor one momentous day to offer Peter the hand of his youngest daughter, Charlotte.

Happy as a bachelor, Peter came painfully close to calling the dogs on the poor man and his youthful daughter.

Unfortunately for young Charlotte, he did not; regrettably, he saw her first.

What a pretty thing she was! Blonde hair, green eyes, and a petite form were only the top surface of her beauty. At fourteen years, her eyes and smile still held the sweet innocence of childhood, and her body and face had not yet been marred by time. What was more, standing placidly next to her father, her docile nature was obvious, and the most appealing quality about her to a man such as Mr. Auckland.

And, at first sight, the unsuspecting Peter was instantly head over heals in lust with her.

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The wedding between Peter and Charlotte was held at the manor three days later; his future wife was beautiful, and Mr. Auckland needed know nothing more about her. His prehistoric notions, however, were not the only reason for such haste; the other reason, should have, in reality, prevented such a wedding. If Peter would have only spent a few months of courting, the wedding may never have happened, and the misfortune that befell Quasimodo's family would never have occurred; lamentably, Peter would realize much too late that his wife was pregnant with another man's child.

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The sound of shattering glass resonated through the Auckland manor one starless night, a little short of a year after the ill-fated marriage.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking, you stupid woman!" an alcohol-ridden voice shouted at his terrified spouse.

Charlotte Auckland, marriage already wearing her down, merely shrank back against a wall as her husband ranted and raved. This argument had been fought more times than she could count, always worse when he was drunk.

"Peter, please…calm down…" she whispered, barely audible.

Another bottle was thrown against the wall beside Charlotte's head; shaking with fright, tears began to form in the poor woman's eyes.

"Cry, cry, cry…" Peter said through gritted teeth as he grasped her wrist in a vice-like grip, causing his wife to cry out, "What are you crying for? I give you a home, I give you security, and you dare to snivel and blubber as if I don't give you absolutely everything you want! I even let you keep your little mistake, and you still dare to shed a tear."

Tears fell even faster from Charlotte's eyes as her husband punched the wall. She needed to calm him down quickly before he decided to finally direct his anger physically on her, as he had done on so many occasions that year.

"You do give me everything I want…please Peter, I'm sorry I didn't tell you…please calm down…" she said as a piercing cry emanated from a room further down the hall.

"Hear that? Do you hear that?!" Peter yelled as grabbed both of her arms in a drunken rage, pushing her toward the door as if to let her hear the sound of her baby's cries more clearly. Looking toward where the baby was laid, he seemed to become even more enraged.

"Cry! Cry, you little bastard!" he yelled to the baby, his wife still held in his iron grip. As his young wife's tears fell upon his hand, her sobs interspersed with those of her son, Peter's drunken eyes flashed with his infamous rage.

Before poor Charlotte could react, the world went dark for a split second as her husband's closed fist collided with her delicate cheek. Falling to the floor, she heard Peter unfasten his belt, brandishing it as his weapon of choice, she prepared herself to endure the degrading beating that was to come, that always came. Blow after blow, her strength began to leave her until she was little more than helpless. Satisfied that he had exerted his absolute power over her, Peter stopped just short of beating his spouse within an inch of death.

Mutely, he grabbed her arm with one hand, a handful of hair in the other, and dragged his listless wife to the bed. Roughly throwing her on the bed, he straddled her thighs, glaring disgustedly. Right as Charlotte prepared herself for what was to come, right as Peter began to unbutton his trousers, yet another ear-piercing scream emerged from where the baby lay. Baring his teeth, Peter left his unbuttoned pants where they were as he put his mouth to his sobbing wife's ear.

"You want to cry? Alright, you'll cry…I'll give you something to cry about!" he yelled into her ear as he rose from the bed. Peter stalked out of the room toward Charlotte's child, leaving his terrified wife nearly too weak to walk.

Nearing the "room" where Charlotte's son lay, he stopped just short of the weeping baby's crib. The boy's room could hardly be called a room, his crib not worthy as the sleeping place of an infant; the room was more like a broom closet, the crib more like a horse's water trough. An adequate crib had been built for the baby, as well as a beautiful nursery, but that had been when Peter still thought the boy was his. Looking down upon the little waif before him, he knew that what he had thought and what was were as different as night and day. This child looked nothing like him; red hair, blue eyes, sizeable ears and nose…none of the traits he himself possessed; and Charlotte had had the gall to try to pass this thing off as **his** child!

Upon hearing the sound of a dagger leaving its sheath, Charlotte who had not been able to walk only moments ago, found a rush of strength strong enough to run to her husband, throwing herself to her knees before him.

"No! Please don't kill my baby…" she begged, her eyes as tearful as her son's.

Looking down upon her, Peter silently sheathed his dagger and put a hand atop his teenage spouse's head.

"Shh…don't worry. I won't kill it…" he stated mockingly as he brought her from her knees to her feet. Holding both of her arms in each hand, he thrust her toward her baby. All she could do was look upon her child's crying face as her husband continued to restrain her.

"No, I'll keep him alive just for you…just so you can always remember the sin you committed…just so it can grow up to know what a whore its mother was…" he stated softly, his kisses stroking her neck as his cruel words broke her heart.

Peter began to fiddle with his wife's corset with one hand while his other continued to restrain her.

"Make me a baby…make me a son..." he whispered as he began to drag her into the bedroom, his lips and teeth still roughly caressing her neck and shoulders.

The baby had not yet ceased to cry, his little hands reaching out for his mother in hunger and need for comfort. Charlotte began to struggle against her husband, her motherly instincts and nurturing nature screaming inside of her to comfort her only child.

"Leave it!" Peter yelled as his grip tightened around his wife's arm, causing her once again to cry out.

Although her baby's cries distressed her, their effect could not hold a candle to her husband's fists and cruel words. The love she had for her little boy was no match for the fear her husband instilled in her. Therefore, she allowed her husband to drag her away from her child, his cries still resonating from his pathetic little crib.

His anger returning, Peter began to rant again as he continued to untie Charlotte's corset.

"Make me a son and I'll let you keep it…I already told you I would. But that child will never share the name of Auckland…it will never be a member of this family!" he finished as he roughly ripped her dress from her naked, trembling body. Her eyes were dry as her husband had his way with her. All the while, her child cried until he could cry no more.

Such was the life of that ill-fated child, who would later come to be known as Charles. A mother's buried love…her husband's evident hate…

_Leave it!_

* * *

Charlotte and Peter Auckland did not make love that night; what happened on that bed could never be referred to as love. What was made that night was a son who would reside in the nursery once meant for Charlotte's first child. Love, wealth, attention, family, a last name…this child would receive every tangible thing that should have also been his brother's.

Peter Auckland III was what the child would come to be called; his features and behavior were so like those of his father that it became widely agreed that the little boy had been properly named.

Although his mother loved her first son, she barely saw him during his childhood; throughout the boys' infanthood, his mother was only allowed to tend to little Charles when his brother did not need her; this restriction left Charles many a night without food or comfort

In the confines of the manor, the boys could play and learn their studies as childhood friends, as almost equals. In public, however, it was never known that two children resided in the manor. All through Charles' childhood until he was fifteen, he left the manor only once, and that was only the day he was baptized; although Mr. Auckland hated the child, he was a devout Catholic and would not have a heathen living under his roof.

Other than that day as an infant, Charles never met any other human beings besides the Aucklands and the people hired in order to keep him from ever having to leave, such as his governess. He was not even allowed to attend Church with the family; as his mother and her family went to Church, he would be taught as a Catholic inside the manor.

Now, no one is to think that little Charles lived a lonesome or pathetic life by any means, for although he was often treated with contempt from Mr. Auckland, he did have his brother as a playmate and lived under Peter Auckland's rather sizeable roof with many things to do throughout his confinement. However, whenever his family would leave together without him or Mr. Auckland would once again remind him of his shameful origins, his poor little heart broke a little.

As the boys entered childhood, their relationship was one of friends and brothers. However, as they got older, Peter began to notice differences between himself and his brother; Charles was so hated by the man he called "Sir" as Peter was so loved by that same man that he called "father." By the age of seven, when Peter was old enough to understand the concept that his big brother had been a child born in sin, and that his father was not his brother's father, he treated Charles with the same contempt his father showed him. Charles went from being his big brother to his inferior, from his childhood friend to his disinclined punching bag.

* * *

"Charlie! Stand still. How can I practice if you won't stand still?" a young male voice whined as he wielded a wooden sword, swinging it haphazardously about as he attempted to strike his big brother with it. His victim also wielded a small wooden sword, yet he had already been told dozens of times not to hit his younger brother with it; this was Peter's sword practice, not his.

"Well Pete, if I don't move, then you'll never learn to catch me," Charles stated with a grin; he always loved sword fighting with his brother, for it was the only time during the day, except for his studies, that he felt like an equal to his younger brother. Peter, on the other hand, hated sword practice for he was not all too good at it.

"If I come after you, you'll hit me," Peter whimpered, his sword clutched in front of him with both hands.

Charles couldn't help but roll his eyes, "So what if I do? It doesn't hurt, I promise...I won't hit you hard..."

"No! Promise not to hit me! If you do, I'll tell papa..." Peter threatened, using the card that always gave him the upper hand. Charles sighed, annoyed that he couldn't hit his brother even though he so desperately wanted to. However, he knew what would happen if he upset Mr. Auckland.

"Fine, I won't hit you...but don't hit me too hard, either," Charles said as he brought his sword to his side, inviting his brother to draw near. When his brother still refused to draw nearer, Charles sighed at Peter's unnecessary cowardice and decided to change the subject.

"So...are you excited about getting a new little sister in a few months?" Charles stated nonchalantly, referring to the baby his mother had been carrying for six months.

"What makes you so sure it's a girl?" Peter asked suspiciously, as Charles dropped his sword on the ground to lean against the wall.

"Mama says she's sure it is, and that even though fath...I mean your father wants another boy, she really hopes its a girl. And I hope it is too." Charles said confidently.

"You want it to be a girl? But what does it matter to you, since she wouldn't be your sister, anyway?" Peter knew this would get his brother worked up, and his father hadn't beaten Charles in a few days now...

As Peter planned, Charles became indignant, "Yes she would! We would have the same mother, wouldn't we? Just because my father wasn't your father doesn't mean I'm not your brother, you know?"

"Yes, but at least I'm not a "little bastard," Peter challenged, barely knowing what the word "bastard" meant, but having heard his father call his brother that name many times, it must be what he was.

Charles picked his sword up again, his annoyance beginning to turn to anger, "I'll tell mama you called me that! You're not supposed to say that word! You don't even know what it means!"

"But it's what you are!" Peter taunted.

Charles gripped his sword tighter, contemplating whether or not hitting his brother would be worth a beating from Mr. Auckland. Deciding against it, he merely held his sword at ready, "I am not! Mama told me about my father, he was a tailor in Canterbury and mama loved him! She told me I look just like him!"

"Oh, so was he short, too, like you?! Did he also have a big nose and huge ears? I'm glad papa is my father...I'm glad my father isn't ugly like yours must be!" Peter wanted Charles to come at him...he loved watching his father beat some respect into him.

"Well, you may have gotten good looks from your father, but at least I'm not mean and cruel like you and him are! Mama told me my father was a kind gentleman."

"At least my father **loves** me! Yours isn't even here!

"If he were here, your father would kill him because that's what Aucklands do! They beat and kill people for no good reason. I'm glad your father hates me…I'm glad I'm not an Auckland...I'm glad I'm just Charles!"

"It's not just papa that hates you, you know. Mama's ashamed of you, too."

"Take that back!"

"Make me!"

"Mama loves me!"

"No she doesn't, she hates you! She wishes you had never been born! I heard her tell papa so!"

Charles didn't even think; he ran at his brother with his sword, hitting him ferociously in the shoulder before Peter could react. He dropped his sword and began using his fists; years of cruel words and taunting strengthening each blow, only a few more blows to the shoulder had to be issued before Peter fell to the floor. Having satisfied his anger, as his brother hit the ground, Charles became horrified at what he had just done; he had never hit his little brother before, and he instantly wondered if he had hurt him. As quickly as it had come, his anger left and Charles grabbed Peter's hand and helped him from the ground.

"I'm so sorry, Pete, I don't know what came over me...but you shouldn't have said those things about mama..." Charles said, silently praying that Peter would find it in his heart to spare him this one time.

Charles would have no such luck.

"Papa!" Peter yelled as he ran out of the room, "Papa, Charles hit me!"

Sighing with resignation, Charles dropped his sword and sat down against the wall. To try to run away would just be a waste of energy, and would worsen the beating that was already coming. All he could do was wait, and pray to God that Mr. Auckland wasn't drunk that day.

After only a few moments, Peter came back trailing his father who was seething.

"What's the meaning of this, boy?!" he yelled at the trembling child, "How dare you lay a dirty little finger on my son!"

Although trembling in fear, Charles stood up, coming only to Mr. Auckland's thigh, "I'm sorry, sir…I d-d-didn't mean it…it's just…he called me terrible names, sir…"

Before poor little Charles could react, Mr. Auckland grabbed him and threw him on the ground. The small boy put his hands over his head and hugged his knees to his chest as he heard the sound of Mr. Auckland removing and brandishing his belt. As the beating began, the belt struck his delicate skin until it bled, and Charles began to scream out in pain, but did not cry; no, crying would only intensify the blows, and Mr. Auckland was already issuing blows too fierce for his little body to take. Thankfully, just as the ten-year-old thought he couldn't take the beating anymore, Mr. Auckland stopped and put his belt back on, glaring down at the wounded little boy.

"No matter what Peter ever does, you will never lay a hand upon my son, or I'll make sure you're never able to hit anything…ever again," Mr. Auckland yelled at the whimpering child.

Turning to Peter, his expression and voice softened, "What did you call him, son?"

Hesitating for only a second, Peter realized that if his father reacted at all to what he had said, it would be to praise him for using such big words, "I called him a 'bastard' and told him you and mama didn't want him and that mama's new baby wouldn't be his family…" Peter tried to look as innocent as possible, for fear that maybe his father would not like him saying such things after all.

Luckily for Peter, his father directed his rage toward his brother, kicking the already beaten little boy in the stomach.

"You hit my son for telling you the truth?! Telling you what you already know! I don't know why I put up with you, you little bastard. I shouldn't have let your mother stop me, I should have killed you that night!" Mr. Auckland delivered one more swift kick to the child's little stomach before stalking away.

Following his father's example, Peter also kicked his big brother, knowing that he was too weak and scared at the moment to fight back. He then followed his father outside, a confident, satisfied grin on his face.

The moment his antagonists had left, leaving him in his misery, the pitiful little waif cried his heart out. For hours on end, tears fell heavily from his eyes; well into the night, no one had come for him, no one cared. Even his mother, his beloved mother, had not come to comfort him; he was hurt, he was alone, he was frightened…

He was angry.

* * *

Okay okay, I promise the next chapter will involve Quasi's mom. We just needed to see Charles' past to understand what happens later. Believe me, Charles' family is very crucial to what happens to Quasi's family. I tried to make it as interesting as possible even though it didn't involve any characters from the movie. Well, anyway, please review :) 


	4. Too Many Daggers

**Erin: **Wow, thank you again for the wonderful review! I'm so happy that you're enjoying it so much, and I hope you continue to read and review (because it seems like the other people who had been reading and reviewing have gone bye-bye for now o0 ) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next chapter (it's twice as long as the last one!!!) And you meet Quasi's mommy. YAY!!

Disclaimer: I do not own the disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame on which the story is based, or the book on which the disney version is based. I do own Nadya, but I do own how she's portrayed, nor Ammon, but I do own how he's portrayed. I own Charles, Peter Auckland II and III, Walter, and Charlotte. Those are my characters.

* * *

**Too Many Daggers**

Scenes such as that aforementioned played themselves out very frequently through Charles' childhood; too many a night would Charles cry: cry from pain, from loneliness, from rejection, from anger.

As he grew, however, the abuse he frequently received only strengthened his will, desensitizing him to Mr. Auckland's beatings and his brother's cruel words. Instead of shaping him into an obedient coward as Peter and his father had intended, little Charles grew into a rebellious young man, challenging Mr. Auckland and little brother even through his fear.

As the scared little boy grew into a man, he refused to let himself continue to be a prisoner in his own home. Fearing Mr. Auckland less and less as he became stronger throughout the years, Charles risked the punishment of being seen in public, this risk making the thought of leaving the house even more appealing. Taking one of Mr. Auckland's least valuable horses, Charles would leave, going nowhere in particular, and sometimes silently hoped that Mr. Auckland would catch him and know that he was not afraid, he was not a little boy anymore.

It was on one of these perilous outings, when Charles was about 18 years old, that the story really begins, where Charles would meet the woman that would capture his yearning heart.

"Where on earth are you taking me, Mon amis?" Charles' deep British inflection teasingly chided his favorite of Mr. Auckland's horses. Being very unfamiliar with his surroundings, he would usually let this horse take him wherever it pleased. Charles by now considered the old chestnut gelding, who he had named "Mon amis" meaning "my friend," to be his horse, Mr. Auckland all but forgetting that the "nag," as he called it, even still resided in his stable.

Having been gone for nearly two hours, Charles bitterly realized that it was time to go home if he wanted to avoid Mr. Auckland's noticing of his or his horse's absence. Unfortunately, Mon amis had no such notion that it was time to turn back, and Charles was completely subject to his judgment for he had no idea where they were.

"Come now, you silly boy, I enjoy gallivanting about London as much as you do, but we really do need to turn back unless you want to get us both in terrible trouble," the young man playfully scolded, his horse making no reaction except continuing to walk forward.

Charles exhaled exasperatedly, "Fine, do what you want, it's not like I have much of a choice in the matter since you've seemed to have taken me to the middle of…" Charles looked around him, not knowing what to call such a place. Never had he seen such a diverse group of people: chandlers, bakers, blacksmiths, thieves, and every other kind of peasant one could think of resided in this part of London; it fascinated him, yet part of him actually wanted to turn back, to return to where he knew the roads, where he was not a stranger.

Just as Charles contemplated forcing his horse to turn around, the sound of rapid footsteps and distant hoof beats caught his ear. Turning around, he saw a beautiful gypsy girl; her skin, her thick hair, her beautiful dark eyes, and her lovely full lips could only be described as flawless.

She approached him rapidly, but as soon as she looked up into the Englishman's face, high above her mounted atop his colossal steed, her eyes widened in fear. Bolting down an alleyway, Charles stared at the spot where she had been. All of his life he had been told by Mr. Auckland, who hated all non-Catholics with a passion, that gypsies were filthy, evil heathens, and that if made eye contact with, a gypsy woman could cast her spell on any unsuspecting Englishman; the effect this gypsy girl, no older than the age of sixteen, had on the awestruck Charles proved that the latter of these accusations was indeed true.

Breaking himself from his trance, Charles once again noticed the hoof beats drawing nearer, and realized what this girl must have been running from. He had no idea why she was running from the mounted rider; she could have stolen from someone, or even have committed murder. He had never met a gypsy before, so all he had to go by were the terrible rumors he heard from Mr. Auckland and the nobility and bourgeois of London.

Even through these contemplations, Charles decided to aid in her escape; this was not because he believed the girl to be innocent, for what reason did he have to believe that a non-Catholic was being pursued for any reason other than being guilty of a crime? No, this was because Mr. Auckland so hated gypsies and all other "heathens," that helping one would be just another way to rebel against him. Charles' disdain for people who did not follow Catholicism was nothing compared to his hate for the man who had tortured him, body and soul, all these years.

Right as the rider, who appeared to be an officer in the British police, rounded the corner, Charles dismounted his horse. Quickly feeding Mon amis a carrot from his pocket as a way of premature apology, Charles struck the horse's rear as hard as he could, causing him to bolt down the street right as the constable approached.

"Officer! Oh, officer, please help me, it seems my horse has taken off!" Charles cried out to the mounted rider.

"I have no time for this nonsense, boy. I'm after a heathen criminal, so get out of my way before I arrest you, too!" The officer demanded.

"Are you after a gypsy girl, sir? For if you are, I know just where she went!" Charles insisted.

"I know where she went, boy. I saw her go down this way," the constable pointed down the alleyway he could have sworn he saw the gypsy girl run down.

"No, no, my good sir, she went with my horse! After putting a spell on me, the witch scared him off so I couldn't go after her, then ran in that direction," Charles pointed in the direction opposite of the alleyway.

"What? I could have sworn she went…" the officer spoke before being interrupted by Charles.

"She must have put a spell on you, too! Oh, how bloody awful this is! Please, sir, do not let yourself be fooled by her evil ways, and go after her," Charles urgently pointed down the road to where his horse had taken off.

A look of indignation and anger came over the constable's face, and after looking suspiciously down the alleyway once more, he turned his horse the opposite way and galloped off.

* * *

Rolling his eyes at the superstitious officer, Charles found himself walking down the alleyway looking for the gypsy.

"I might as well," he thought out loud, annoyance plastered on his face, "I've set loose my only way home…"

Coming to the end of the long alleyway the gypsy had run through, and walking about ten minutes through the maze of different alleyways without seeing the girl, Charles began to turn back. Before he could, however, he happened to notice a strange, purplish light coming from his right. Curiosity got the best of him, and having not been exposed to the dangers the world outside the manor could hold, he walked to the right to investigate. Coming to the light, which seemed to emanate from a crevice in the wall, Charles peered in and saw what may have been the most amazing thing he'd ever witnessed in his life. It was as if a whole other town had been built within this wall, filled with gypsy men, women, and children.

"So this is why I've never seen one before…" Charles whispered to himself, his eyes widened in pure wonderment, "…they've all been hiding here…"

Right as Charles' curiosity had been satisfied, and he began to turn back, a rough hand grabbed his collar, spinning him around. Before poor Charles could react, his arms were seized by two other men, while the one who had grabbed his collar stared at him in anger.

"How did you find this place? Who sent you here?!" the gypsy man said as he waved a newly unsheathed dagger in the frightened man's face.

"W-Wha…nobody sent me here. I'm sorry, I was just taking a walk and I saw a light and…" Charles cringed as the man came face to face with him, putting the dagger to his throat.

"You expect me to believe that you, a rich Englishman, was merely taking a stroll through the alleys, looking for nothing in particular…" the gypsy man's face came so close to Charles' own, that his thick mustache nearly grazed Charles' nose.

"Well, I guess I was looking for someone…but I never tried to find this place I swear! I just happened upon it!"

"Who were you looking for?"

"Well, this gypsy girl…I saw her come this way and I was trying to catch up to her…"

The man's eyes widened in utter anger and rage as Charles realized how his words must have sounded to the man who didn't know the entire story.

"No! Oh no, not like tha…" Charles managed to utter before his words were cut off by a gag tied around his mouth.

Without a word, the gypsy man raised his dagger, aiming for Charles' rapidly beating heart. Eyes widening in fear, Charles tried furtively to pull away from his captors, all the while uttering muffled words through his gag, begging the man to have mercy for he truly did not know what he had done.

As the Englishman braced himself for his bloody end, a female voice screamed out, causing the man to momentarily drop his aim.

"Ammon! What on earth are you doing?!" The gypsy girl Charles' had protected shrieked.

The gypsy man, apparently named Ammon, looked utterly shocked and indignant.

"What do you mean what am I doing? This is an Englishman, for Del's sake! He'll tell the rest and then where will we be, Nadya?!"

Despite his situation, Charles couldn't help but notice how beautiful that name sounded on her.

"Well…even so, Ammon, I can't let you hurt him! I owe…actually, we all owe him a debt of gratitude," the girl called Nadya chastised Ammon as she glanced, annoyed, at the still bound and gagged Charles.

Ammon raised an eyebrow, "How so?"

"An officer was coming this way…I was stupid, I turned toward the camp while he was after me…"

The gypsy man once again glared at Charles, thinking he had been that officer.

"No! Ammon, don't be foolish. This man turned him a different way, away from our camp. If he hadn't, who knows what may have happened?" Nadya scolded.

Going from anger to disbelief, Ammon looked at the Englishman once again, this time with awe.

"Really?" he asked.

Charles nodded his head fiercely, still gagged, praying that this new information would save him from his nearly deadly mistake.

The gypsy motioned for his men to remove the cloth from Charles' mouth, and then asked in disbelief, "Why would you do that?"

Unable to think of a better answer than "I hate my guardian more than I hate your people," Charles merely replied with a shrug.

"Why not, eh?" he asked meekly, a shy smile on his face. Nadya couldn't help but smile at his awkwardness.

Rising from his knees, Charles stood before Ammon, his short stature only reaching the top of the man's chest. Ammon began to say something to Nadya, but for fear that he may have changed his mind about letting him go, Charles decided to speak first.

"Sir, if I may, I can assure you that I will never be able to find this place again for I honestly have no earthly idea where I am, and even if I could, I would die a thousand deaths before I would betray you or your people," Charles made an elaborate bow, assuming that Ammon was the head of this particular tribe, and he sure did not want to insult him by showing any lack of respect.

Bemused at Charles' show of obsequiousness, Ammon relaxed and laughed, roughly slapping Charles on the back.

"Well, boy, I suppose I am in your debt…" Ammon had not yet sheathed his dagger and proceeded to twirl it around in his fingers dangerously close to Charles' face, "…but I suggest you never come here again, for Nadya may not always be here to save you…and we haven't hanged anyone in a very long time…" the gypsy man roared with laughter at Charles' uncomfortable grimace.

"Now, now Ammon, I think he's been through enough without you scaring him half to death…again," Nadya stated, glaring threateningly at Ammon.

The gypsy man released Charles' shoulders and thrust him toward Nadya, "You're right, my dear, and so I think it's time for you to take him home," he smirked at Nadya's horrified expression; it was one thing to keep an Englishman from being killed, it was something completely different to walk alone at night with one.

"Come on, Nadya, have you already forgotten the debt you owe this noble, brave young man," Ammon stated, a sarcastic tinge in his voice, challenging the girl before him.

Looking from Charles to Ammon, Nadya resigned and motioned for Charles to follow her, silently praying that this boy really was as innocent as he seemed.

* * *

"So…where do you live?" Nadya asked about five minutes after the pair had begun their trek. She was reluctant to speak to such a man, but where he lived was quite important information if she was to get him home.

"Well…uh…I know I live in London…and I know many nobles live there," Charles stated, embarrassed that he didn't even know the street on which he lived.

"Really…so you're a nobleman?" Nadya stated in disbelief.

Meekly, Charles looked to his shoes and shook his head with a shy smile, "I just live with one…you know, kind of as a friend of the family."

Nadya nodded in understanding as Charles uncomfortably rubbed his arm, the long sleeve of his tunic rising and falling. Curiosity overcame Nadya as she noticed something peculiar on his left arm.

"What on earth is that?" she abruptly lifted his sleeve, staring at a terribly hideous scar that ran from the top of his hand to the top of his shoulder.

Pulling the sleeve down just as abruptly and backing away with horror, Charles faked a smile and laughed, "You know how it is, you're a kid and you run around in a house with…pottery and such…and you're bound to get hurt."

Looking at him with suspicious eyes, Nadya knew that he could not be telling the truth; such an ugly and large scar could not have been an accident, and surely couldn't have been caused by pottery. Only a knife or some other weapon could have left such a mark.

Merely looking at him with sympathy, Nadya realized that there may be more to this awkward man than she gave him credit for.

"Uh…" Charles struggled to change the subject, "So, are you and…Ammon was it?…are you two, you know…" he put the index fingers from each hand side by side "…an item."

Nadya, who had barely smiled throughout this entire ordeal, instantly burst into laughter. Her laugh was as pretty as she was, and made her even more beautiful in Charles' eyes.

"Oh, heaven's no!" Nadya struggled to say through her sweet laughter, "Ammon is my brother! Well, at least, I see him as my brother."

Charles winced at his mistake, "Oh, sorry...I didn't know," he nervously chuckled as he rubbed the back of his head.

Nadya just smiled at him and rolled her eyes.

"So, how about you? Have you ever been in love?" Nadya curiously chided.

Charles smiled, mulling his words over delicately, "No...no I have not...at least, not yet anyway..."

"I didn't think so," Nadya quickly interjected, "I mean, you're so young, and men usually don't marry until they're at least sixteen..."

Now it was Charles' turn to laugh; the British inflection in his laughter sent a shiver up Nadya's spine, and caused her to laugh also at a joke she clearly did not get.

"How young do you think I am?! For I'll have you know that I am eighteen years old, going on nineteen in January," he let out another roar of laughter as Nadya gasped in horror at her mistake and stared at him in confusion, for Charles really did not look nearly as old as he was.

"You cannot be eighteen! I mean...you're so...innocent and naive and...and..." Not wanting to hurt his feelings, yet wanting to get her point across, she put her hand to her forehead, referring to the fact that Charles was a good inch shorter than her.

Dejected that this beautiful girl would point out his most hated flaw, Charles finished for her.

"Short? Hey, you don't have to tell me. Believe me, I know," Nadya looked away ashamedly, hating to have hurt the feelings of the man who had saved her life, as well as her entire camp.

Charles smiled, "Don't feel too terrible about it...I mean, I get that quite a bit...I'm used to it...but..." Charles stopped, a thought occurring to him, "How old did you think I was?"

Nadya shrugged, "I guessed about fourteen or fifteen...of course, I did think you were a bit broad-shouldered and strong-jawed to be so young," she stated, trying to boost his ego by pointing out the qualities in him that, were in fact, quite dashing.

Smirking at the flattery, yet silently appreciating it, Charles suddenly came to a shocking conclusion.

"So your brother was going to kill me, even though I looked like just a boy? Wow, that's scary, I have to admit, that you gypsies would kill anyone, young and old, just to keep them from entering your camp."

Nadya's expression suddenly went from that of apology to one of anger, "Us gypsies?! Well, let me tell you something, maybe we gypsies wouldn't have to be so careful and ruthless if you Englishmen would just leave us alone," groaning exasperatedly, Nadya got in Charles' face and screamed, "I knew it, you're all the same, every single one of you!"

She turned around and continued walking, keeping her back to Charles. Looking down, ashamed at having upset her, yet not truly understanding what he said that was wrong, Charles followed her silently.

They walked for about fifteen minutes in silence before Charles finally gathered up the courage to speak.

"Listen, I'm sorry...it's just..."

"Look, you saved my life and I thank you for it. Alright, I thought that since you did that, you were different, but I guess..." Nadya could not finish her chastisement, for Charles suddenly grabbed her hand and spun her to face him.

"I am different! I'm very different...I don't know what's what in the world...I mean, the first time I ever left home was when I was fifteen! So of course I wouldn't know what and what not to say to a gypsy, or any person for that matter. I'm just learning as I go, and I now know that you do not like it when I lump gypsies together as if they're all the same. So, just cut me a little slack, alright?"

Charles' shoulders slumped, already having revealed more to this stranger than he cared to, but knowing that it was necessary for her to possibly forgive him for his mistake. He found it both ironic and depressing that even through all the abuse and cruelty, he still knew very little about the real world.

Nadya, although still quite angry, so pitied the innocent creature before her that she decided to put her anger aside…for now.

"Oh…well, I didn't know you were so sheltered…" Nadya was interrupted by a disgusted scoff from Charles, not directed at her or anything in particular.

"Nadya, do you like your home…you know, your family?" Charles asked, part of him asking out of pure need to talk to someone about his situation, part of him asking out of curiosity, and part of him asking to stall their trek back to the manor. It was already getting dark, and he had surely been missed already. His hand mindlessly went to his left arm as he thought about what awaited for him when he returned home.

"I love it! I mean, it can get cramped, of course, but I wouldn't trade living in a gypsy camp for anything in the world! And my family, it's like having dozens of families," Nadya gushed, but she stopped as she looked at Charles, who stared at the ground dejectedly.

"What about you? I mean, you live with nobility. That must be nice, right?"

Charles' eyes brimmed with bitter tears, but upon hearing how wonderful Nadya's family life was, he was not so willing to open up to her.

"Well, let's just say that I, unlike you, would trade living where I do for anywhere else, even the streets if I had to," Charles whispered.

Nadya had not expected this answer, and her young mind brimmed with pity for him and curiosity at what made this man's life so horrible.

"Then why don't you leave? You're eighteen, you could leave…" Nadya offered.

Charles laughed bitterly; so many times he had contemplated leaving the manor, that Hell on earth, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Peter had grown to be just as cruel as his father, and how could Charles leave his mother and 8-year-old brother alone in the hands of such monsters?

"I just can't…there are circumstances…but I would if I could bring myself to do it, I really would." he said as they continued walking, nearing the street where Charles lived; he recognized, even in the dark, exactly where he was now.

Nadya suddenly stopped short, realizing with horror where she was, "This is much farther than I dare go…you can get home from here, right?"

Disappointed that the conversation with her had to end and the one with Mr. Auckland had to begin, Charles nodded reluctantly.

Nadya smiled, said her goodbyes, and began to turn away. Just as Charles continued walking, however, she called to him.

"Thank you again for this afternoon. I really hope everything turns out all right for you…" Nadya stopped, realizing that she had not yet asked for the man's name.

"What is your name again? I don't think you've told me."

Charles smiled, relieved that she asked, for it had slightly offended him that she had not cared to know.

"It's Charles."

Once again realizing where she was, Nadya walked backwards away from the street as she called out, "Well, Charles, if ever you do decide to leave, look for me and maybe I can find you a place to stay or something. You know where I live now, so…"

Nodding in understanding, Charles told her that more than likely, he would take her up on her offer.

Saying their goodbyes once again, the pair finally went their separate ways, as Charles braced himself for what was to come.

* * *

"Where the bloody hell have you been?!" An all-too-familiar voice bellowed as Charles entered the house. He had planned on sneaking upstairs, but Mr. Auckland had apparently been waiting for him.

"I got lost, sir," Charles said coldly, yet respectfully, as he noticed the three bottles of liquor sitting on the table, as well as the one clutched in Mr. Auckland's hand.

"Why were you even out?! Who saw you?!" The big man yelled at his considerably shorter ward, grabbing Charles by the collar with both hands.

Unshaken by the action, yet terrified that his patriarch was so drunk, Charles looked Mr. Auckland in the eye.

"No one saw me, sir. Even if they did, no one knows about me, so…" Charles said until he was interrupted by a fierce back-handed slap to his face. Reeling and angry, he glared at the cruel man with hate as he touched his burning cheek.

"You mean no one knew about you…I'm sure everyone's talking now… I'll be the most hated man in London if people know that I allow a bastard child to live in my house!" He threw his bottle of liquor at Charles' head, but his drunken state caused him to miss, the bottle only grazing the young man's ear.

"That's not the reason you're the most hated man in London, Mr. Auckland!" Charles yelled angrily…and unthinkingly. Before the sentence was even finished, Peter Auckland II had drawn his ever-present dagger from his belt.

"You're an insolent boy, and even if you're not afraid of my beatings anymore, I can still break you of that!"

The crazed man ran at Charles with the dagger; Charles ran for the door. Sadly for the tortured young man, he never made it, for just as his hand reached the knob, another hand reached out and roughly grabbed his collar and threw him to the floor.

It was Peter.

Using every weapon he could find - chairs, feet, fists - Peter beat Charles on the ground while his father looked on, dagger in hand. Charles could have fought him, would have fought him, but doing so would have been an instant death sentence.

"Pete…" Charles attempted furtively to reason with his brother through his groans of pain, "leave me alone…I haven't done…anything to you."

"You've been a disgrace to this family, that's what you've done!" Peter said as he delivered one more strong kick to Charles' head before coming behind him and pinning his arms behind his back.

Charles' eyes widened in terror as Mr. Auckland approached him with the dagger. Instinctively, the bound man struggled against Peter, almost managing to get free, for Peter's strength was nothing compared to his own.

"Peter…Pete, take this…" Mr. Auckland handed the dagger to his son, "…and give him to me."

As Charles' arms were taken by the man's own hands, Charles realized the futility of his situation. His own strength, although surpassing that of his brother, was absolutely no match for Mr. Auckland's brutish muscle.

Just as the two were deciding which part of Charles' body to mutilate that would teach him the greatest lesson, Charles happened to look toward the stairwell.

And saw his mother.

She just stood there, tears streaming down her face yet not one finger did she lift to help her son.

"Mama?" Charles whispered, his eyes widening as despair swept over him. This scene had played out too many times before, and not once could he remember his mother protecting him, or even comforting him afterwards. The only part she ever played was to cry, weep for her son, but her tears, he realized, meant nothing to him. She cared nothing for him and never had; she loved him as a son, of course, but it sickened him just how much she loved herself more.

Noticing Charles' distress and looking at who Charles was looking toward, Mr. Auckland taunted his ward with insurmountable cruelty.

"What do you think, Charlotte," he cupped Charles' chin in his massive hand as his other held fast onto his arm, "should we do a number on his face…make him ashamed to set foot in public again? Or should we slice up his legs a bit…make him unable to set foot in public again?"

Charlotte, of course, did not answer except by crying harder, sinking to her knees at the top of the stairs.

"Both, you say? Now that seems pretty harsh, darling…" the man mocked Charles and his mother, causing Charles to seethe with anger and tremble in fear.

Finally speaking up, Charlotte uttered, "Please don't hurt him…" from where she sat at the top of the stairs.

"Don't hurt him?! Oh, I won't hurt him…" Mr. Auckland removed his hand from Charles face as forced the back of his head painfully to the floor with frightening force and pressed his knee to the poor boy's throat, inhibiting his ability to breathe.

"Come on, son, teach this ungrateful boy a thing or two about respect," the cruel brute said as he pinned both of Charles' arms above his head with both hands, his knee still bearing down upon the boy's neck.

Peter came toward him with the dagger, "So, father, legs or face? Where should I cut him…?"

Mr. Auckland laughed a cruel, taunting cackle as Charles struggled furtively to both set himself free and catch his breath, "Well, your mother said both…but maybe we should ask Charles…"

Taking his knee slightly off Charles' neck to see what Charles would say to that, Mr. Auckland unwittingly gave his victim a chance to escape. His legs not being restrained at all, Charles kicked out wildly at nothing, attempting to distract his captor and give him a chance to set one of his arms free.

His plan worked; Mr. Auckland, irritated at this mindless thrashing, unthinkingly brought one of his hands to Charles' knees, forcing them to stay still. With only one hand restraining Charles' arms, it was not difficult for the boy to set one hand free, and subsequently punch his unsuspecting captor as hard as he could in the groin, causing the man to double over, freeing Charles completely.

Charles got up, and looked to his brother to see if he would come at him; Peter, with his father incapacitated for the time being and unable to protect him, hesitated to go after his much stronger sibling. Seeing this hesitation, Charles bolted up the stairs, to his mother.

"Mother, leave with me!" Charles grabbed his mother's hand and tried to pull her with him down the stairs, "Go get Walter and the two of you can leave with me!"

Charlotte looked at her oldest son with pity, yet yanked her hand away, "Charles, you know I love you. But I can't take that risk…I can't let Walter take that risk…I'm sorry, I can't."

"Please! Mama, I can protect you! I'll take care of you and…" Charles quickly glanced down the stairs to notice that Mr. Auckland had gotten up and grabbed the dagger from his son's hand. Seething, the man was making his way up the stairs, dagger poised for the kill.

"Oh, Charles, why on earth did you have to come up here?!" his mother ungratefully scolded, as she ran to the next room, leaving her son to face the monster alone.

Now knowing that his mother truly cared nothing for him, and that death instead of injury awaited at the end of his patriarch's dagger, Charles daringly bolted downstairs, risking the chance of colliding with the dagger.

Unfortunately, Mr. Auckland did thrust the dagger at Charles, and although it missed Charles' heart by a mile, Mr. Auckland's drunken aim did manage to hit the center of Charles' thigh.

Wincing and screaming out in pain, Charles limped to the door, his pursuer close behind.

Charles came to door and turned the knob…if he could only get outside…

Alas, the door was locked. Every lock on the door had been fastened, and before Charles could even think to unlock them, a strong hand grabbed his neck and once again forced him to the ground. The dagger in Mr. Auckland's hand was poised, ready to end Charles' unhappy life.

"No! Please, sir, please, I'm sorry. I won't leave again, I promise…I promise, sir…please have mercy on me!" Charles cowered, all resistance futile at this point.

Dagger still poised, Mr. Auckland smirked at the boy's submission, and the sadist kicked his ward swiftly and mercilessly in the groin, causing Charles to cry out an ear-piercing scream, praying for somebody, anybody, to save him from this tragic, premature end.

"Papa," a young, innocent voice suddenly called from the stairs, "Papa, what are you doing?"

The man who had been addressed looked up, and dropped his dagger to his side.

"Walter, go back to bed. This doesn't concern you, son," Mr. Auckland's voice changed from one of cruelty to one of tenderness as he addressed his youngest son, "I'm sure Charles is sorry he woke you…he won't do it again," Mr. Auckland smiled as his son, who had recently taken a liking to Charles, reluctantly went back to bed.

Mr. Auckland then looked to Peter as the door to his son's bedroom closed, "Take this outside…" he whispered forebodingly as he dragged Charles to the door. Holding Charles in place, he then proceeded to unlock the many locks. As the door opened, Charles once again began to struggle, freedom at his fingertips.

"Sir, just let me go! If you don't want me in your home, I don't want to be here either. Just let me go and you'll never hear from me again, I swear to you," Charles pleaded hopefully.

Without a word, Mr. Auckland brought his dagger fiercely to Charles' uninjured leg, and let the tip plunge into the boy's flesh. Before Charles could even cry out, Mr. Auckland motioned to his son, and the two began beating their victim like a dog within an inch of death. This was the worst beating Charles had experienced thus far - nose broken, his eyes and lips swollen, his groin burning as if on fire, legs slashed and beaten, arms scraped and bruised, the rest of his body in similar pain. The beating lasted for hours that seemed like days, until Charles was sure that he would die from either blood loss or sheer pain.

When the beating was over, and both Peter Aucklands ceased their torture, Mr. Auckland commanded Peter to go to bed and let him alone with his victim. Peter would have resisted and said that he wanted to stay to watch, but for the maniacal look in his father's eyes as he looked at Charles. Unwilling to let that sheer anger transfer itself to him, Peter was more than happy to obey, and went to bed closing the front door behind him.

"You think you're clever, don't you, boy? Stealing my horses and running off…well, I'll make you a deal. If you hate it here so much, you can leave, I won't stop you. But, if I see any of my horses are missing, or if you're here tomorrow morning, I'll kill you! I swear to you that if I ever see your face on this property again, I will kill you with no hesitation, do you understand me?!"

Mr. Auckland then delivered on final kick to Charles' head, laughing to himself at his cleverness, for he would give Charles a chance to leave, but in the state Charles was in this night, there would be no way for him to even stand, much less leave the immense property, and Mr. Auckland would be able to kill him with no guilt tomorrow morning.

"Good night, boy," Mr. Auckland said as he turned toward the house and entered, leaving Charles alone in his misery and pain.

Heaving a sigh of despair, Charles looked to the end of the road, where he could barely see the open gate that signified the end of the property. He could barely breath, barely see, barely move, much less walk; burying his bleeding head in his bruised arms, Charles realized that this was how it was all to end, for there was no way he could leave tonight. Tomorrow, he may regain some strength back, but by then it would be too late.

Resigning himself to what was to come tomorrow, Charles was too hurt and weak to really care.

Charles had only one last thought before he allowed himself to drift into splendid unconsciousness, his pain and worries gone with the night:

"_What happens tomorrow will happen tomorrow. My fate lies with God now."_


	5. Unlikely Heroes

**Erin**: Thank you so much for the review! It's been great talking to you, and even if you're the only one reviewing lately, I will definitely keep this story going. :) Hope you enjoy this chapter, and once again, I am still taking suggestions on how Mr. Auckland should slowly and painfully die. : D

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I do own every character in this chapter, so yay! Except God, but...do I really need to put a disclaimer on Him?

* * *

**Unlikely Heroes**

Such a beautiful dawn has never been seen before nor would ever be seen again as the morning following that terrible dark night. Every creature inhabiting the quiet city of London awoke more peaceful than anyone on this earth has felt in decades. God was working his magic that morning, and everyone, whether they be human or animal, could feel it.

Everyone, that is, except two. One, of course, was Mr. Auckland, for although he claimed to be a Catholic man, he rarely felt the presence of God, and if he did, he never cared that it was there. That horribly cruel man who had committed such unforgivable atrocities just the night before against his innocent ward, had only one thought on his mind that night, and that thought surely had nothing to do with God: the murder of an innocent young man.

The other who could not feel God's magic that day was the aforesaid victim; it was not that Charles rarely felt God's presence, for despite all he had been through, he really did believe that God protected the good and the helpless. No, Charles could not feel God's presence for he could not feel anything that morning except for his pain; his notion that he would regain his strength in the morning had been very incorrect, and if possible, it seemed as if Charles had become weaker with sleep. The young man, who had awoken hours before the rest of London, waited in despair as he lay in the grass, damp with dew and blood.

Checking himself to make sure nothing was broken besides his nose, Charles realized something that had not been there before: a thin, cotton blanket. The blanket was small but had apparently been draped over him during the night, most likely by his mother. Despite his pain, a bitter smile graced Charles' lips. Right when he was ready to believe that his mother had no love for him, she always did something small and simple that forced him to think otherwise. As he weakly clutched the blanket, his anger for his mother subsided, and he silently cursed his trusting, forgiving heart.

His vision fading in and out, Charles silently prayed to God to save him from his imminent death at the hands of his unforgiving tormentor, for there was no earthly way he could do it alone.

* * *

Hours had passed since Charles had first woken up, and now with the sun peaking over the horizon, and morning drawing near, his hope had all but faded away. That is, until Charles' ears picked up a faint yet familiar noise: slow, lazy hoof beats and a high-pitched whinny. Looking toward the noise, Charles' fading vision could barely make out the faint outline of a horse, his horse. 

"Mon Amis?" Charles mouthed as he struggled to see through the morning fog with his dim vision. A snort came from the beast's nose, proving that there was indeed a horse several yards away.

Hope and excitement rushing through his veins, Charles struggled to lift his head and call to his horse, his only hope at survival. Unfortunately, the poor man's vocal chords were barely in working order at the moment, and not a word would emanate from his mouth. His apathy gone with the arrival of his friend, Charles was determined not to let this God-send slip through his fingers.

He pursed his lips, and after running his tongue over his mouth to wet his bloody, chapped lips, a sound finally emerged: a quiet, barely audible whistle. As the sound escaped his lips, then faded away, Charles prayed that his horse would see him, even though he himself could see nothing through his fading vision and the morning fog. He let out another whistle, then another, each one softer than the first, willing Mon Amis to come to him, to save him. The fact that it would be impossible to mount the horse in his condition did not occur to him, or at least, he did not let it occur to him.

The whistling obviously not working, Charles tried once again to call to his friend.

"Come here, boy," he said almost inaudibly, his voice a low, raspy sound, followed by another low-pitched whistle, that could never be heard by human ears.

Fortunately for Charles, horses have much better hearing than humans, and even through the darkness, the young Englishman could see his horse lift his head and start to move. However, he could not see which way Mon Amis was moving, whether toward him or away. Struggling to lift his head and arm, Charles weakly waved to his horse, beckoning him forth as he continued to whistle until he felt as if his throat was on fire.

Weakness overcoming him, Charles put his head back on the ground, having over-exerted himself by moving at all. Charles needed rest, he needed medical care, he needed...

Suddenly, Charles felt a gentle, odd sensation on his neck and head; he immediately recognized it as a horse's over-sized lips massaging his aching head, nipping at his hair and ears in a show of affection. An elated smile gracing his lips, Charles silently thanked God as he brought his hand to Mon amis' head, stroking his friend's mane in silent gratitude.

The thought that had not yet occurred to Charles, the realization that there was no way on earth he could ever mount his horse in order for Mon Amis to take him away from this terrible place, finally entered the mind of the tortured young man. This realization breaking his heart, Charles weakly embraced his friend's head, tears forming in his eyes. He ran his hands along his horse's mane, his ears, his muzzle, his bridle, his...

Charles suddenly remembered that his horse had not been unsaddled; the stirrups were hanging down, the pommel of the saddle could help him mount, if only he could reach the stirrups and summon the strength to pull himself up. Mon Amis was a small horse, and Charles was overly confident and hopeful in the face of certain death. He reached for the stirrups, safety at his fingertips...

If only his legs weren't so damn short, making his stirrups far too high up for him to reach from the ground. Emitting a groan of frustration, Charles laid his head back down, his hand dropping to his side to land on the blanket his mother had left with him. Charles looked at it with wonder, as if it had been the most amazing creation ever made by man, and then looked to the stirrups and back. An inaudible laugh emanated from his throat as he reached for the blanket, his weakness forgotten for the moment as he struggled to pull it through the stirrups. After about a half-hour, he succeeded, his hands holding the blanket, the blanket draped through the stirrups, the stirrups attached to the saddle, the saddle atop the horse that would ride him to safety. The poor, hopeful young man figured that if he connected himself to the saddle, he could find some strength within him to pull himself up; alas, he was dreadfully mistaken. Several times he painstakingly tried to mount the horse, and every time his only result was the ripping of fibers in the already frail blanket. Unwilling to allow himself to be separated from the horse, he stopped trying just as a sound emanated from the house. The sound of locks being unfastened, the sound of a madman preying upon his victim, the sound of imminent death...

Charles didn't think, Charles didn't question, Charles didn't even realize that he had kicked Mon Amis until the sting of friction brought him to the horrifying realization that he was being drawn under a horse, his life almost literally hanging by a string.

* * *

Mon Amis soared down the cobblestone walkway, unknowingly dragging his friend's tattered body across the ground below him. Struggling to keep his head up and away from the stones, Charles saw the door of the manor open with Mr. Auckland at the threshold; although he couldn't quite make out the man's expression, he could guess that it wasn't one of happiness, and his last glimpse before Mon Amis rounded the corner was the sight of the evil man hurriedly running to the stable. 

As Mon Amis flew to the right, Charles continued to hang on for dear life as he heard the sound of a second set of hoof beats coming down the cobblestones.

"Please God, don't let it rip, don't let it rip," Charles silently pleaded, the blanket ripping a little at the seams with each stride. If the blanket were to tear, and Charles to be left behind in a helpless heap, the young man had serious doubts that Mr. Auckland would care to stop his horse to avoid trampling his victim beneath the giant beast's feet.

Mr. Auckland and his horse, who Charles now recognized to be Aries, Mr. Auckland's most prized possession and possibly the fastest horse Charles had ever seen, were gaining fast upon Charles and Mon Amis, who Charles bitterly realized was probably one of the slowest horses in London. His life-line slipping both from the stirrups and his hands, the poor man silently willed his horse to find somewhere safe, for he had no power over which way they came or went, and his fate was once again at the discretion of his friend. Since one of Aries' strides equaled three of Mon Amis' own, the pair didn't have much time before Mr. Auckland caught up with them and more than likely murdered them both.

Closer...closer...closer the horrid man came to catching Charles and his gallant rescuer, his only thought to catch and kill the innocent beings; they had to go faster, they had to hide, they had to find...

A church?

Charles winced in pain as his head struck one of the steps, and smiled at his luck that his horse would so conveniently and fortunately decide that a church would be a perfect place to rest his tired, aching legs. Despite his dire situation, Charles laughed loudly and hysterically as Mon Amis entered the sanctuary, the elated young man trailing closely behind.

As Charles' laughter filled the small cathedral, the hoof beats from outside faded out, revealing that Mr. Auckland had arrived; and unlike Charles, he felt no need to desecrate the house of God by riding Aries directly into the cathedral.

What Charles did not hear was Mr. Auckland's feet hitting the ground as he dismounted his horse, or the sound of footsteps coming up the steps toward the sanctuary.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary...sanctuary..." Charles said repeatedly and almost inaudibly as his laughter faded, replaced by his desperate words.

His words, unfortunately, were drowned out by the frantic screams of the archdeacon, priests, and worshipers in the Church, all of whom had their hands outstretched toward Mon Amis in attempt to stop the rampant beast.

Meanwhile, Peter Auckland II had entered through the doors of the church, his dagger obviously sheathed by his side; the panicked priests failed to notice his presence amongst the chaos and confusion. Charles, however, noticed his abusive patriarch coming toward him right away, just as Mon Amis came to a sudden halt and reared on his hind legs, nearly kicking Charles' already bloody and throbbing head. As the horse reared, the blanket that had served as Charles' fragile life-line snapped in two, leaving Charles once again in a limp heap on the ground. Luckily for Charles, his claim for sanctuary protected the helpless Englishman from any harm Mr. Auckland could beset upon him.

Or so he thought.

"Father...Father..." Mr. Auckland called as he walked up to the archdeacon, putting a strong hand on his shoulder, the holy man's eyes immediately widening in horror as he realized who it was that had a firm hold on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Father. He's with me...I'm sorry about the trouble this insubordinate boy here has caused...it won't happen again," Mr. Auckland said ironically, as he looked condescendingly down at Charles, putting one dangerous hand on the head of the helpless 18-year-old before him, and one on the reins of his victim's accomplice. The cruel man mockingly smirked at him as he pseudo-affectionately stroked his hair, attempting to hide from the priests the fact that his ward was so tattered and beaten.

Wincing and pulling away from the source of his torture, Charles managed to fall to his right, landing before the archdeacon's feet.

"No...Father...don't let him...sanctuary...please..." Charles pleaded incomprehensibly, his words coming out between heavy breaths, his voice raspy and weak, his arms clutched weakly around the archdeacon's legs, and his head laid heavily on the holy man's feet.

The archdeacon and surrounding priests merely stared wide-eyed at Mr. Auckland in horror, his reputation not lost on the religious and holy.

"Mr. Auckland, sir, the young man did claim..." the archdeacon began, before being interrupted by a rough hand clasped once again on his shoulder: the one that had previously rested on the bleeding head of his young ward.

"Father, you know how children in trouble are...he ran away and knows he'll be punished. I can't allow him to get away with his blasphemous behavior just because he ran his horse inside a church, which I'll also have to punish him for..." Mr. Auckland looked sternly at Charles as if he were a father scolding an unruly child, instead of a crazed murderer waiting to kill his innocent victim.

The clergyman, his eyes shifting from the insistent nobleman before him and the pleading boy at his feet, nodded and began to back away from Charles. It was not that he whole heartedly believed that Mr. Auckland meant the boy no harm, but even holy men were frightened of Peter Auckland's rage, and the archdeacon was not too holy for the thought "better him than me" to cross his mind.

As the archdeacon backed away, sorrow filled Charles' eyes at this betrayal by the very people he was sure would keep him safe, would grant him sanctuary from his patriarch's cruelty.

Mr. Auckland, nodding thankfully to the priest, grabbed a hold of Charles' collar and pulled him roughly and painfully to his feet. Although he was cruel, he was, as the reader already knows, a very devoted Catholic, and would not be caught dead killing an innocent in a house of God in front of all these people; he was, however, not too Catholic to drag the innocent out of the church to murder him on his own property.

"No! Sanctuary...sanctuary..." Charles called out softly, his vocal chords still not in great working order, as he futilely attempted to remove himself from his assailant's iron grip. His eyes swept the church pleadingly, looking for someone...anyone, whether it be priest or worshiper, to grant him sanctuary, to protect him, to save him from his unjust death.

No one moved, no one stepped forward, no one took their horrified eyes from the evil man before them.

At least, no one in the sanctuary at that time...

The doors to the cathedral opened as a young clergyman, in his early thirties and dressed in a priest's robes, entered with bible in his hand; he had ironically just come back from praying with and for a condemned man, who was to go to the gallows that morning. The moment he entered, he did a double take at the chaotic scene before him.

"What on earth is a horse doing in this cathedral?!" the priest said a little too loudly. All eyes turned to him, as the young priest realized the inappropriateness of his outburst.

Unlike the other men who looked upon him with scolding eyes, Charles saw this man as his last chance for liberation.

"Sanctuary...sanctuary...he'll kill me...sanct-," the young man's words were cut off by a large hand clasped firmly across his mouth. He looked up into Mr. Auckland's horrifying face, that now looked down at him in frustration and restrained anger. Peter Auckland put his mouth to Charles' ear.

"Say another word, and I'll make sure that your death is slow and painful. If you thought last night was terrible, just say another word..." Mr. Auckland whispered so softly that only Charles could hear his threatening words, as he removed his hand from the boy's mouth.

Terrified that anything could be more painful than last night, but believing that Mr. Auckland could accomplish such a feat, Charles obeyed and said not another word as Mr. Auckland began dragging him from the church once more. It wasn't as if it would matter anyway, no one was going to save him from his imminent death. "Pardon me, sir, but I believe that boy just claimed sanctuary...if I'm not mistaken, I believe that means you need to unhand him this instant..." the young clergyman said, his hand reaching toward the one Mr. Auckland had clasped around Charles' collar.

"Do you not know who I am?!" Mr. Auckland practically screamed, indignant and shocked, at this man's rudeness, which he had never been subject to. He yanked his hand from Charles' collar and roughly grabbed the clergyman's offending hand, earning a shocked gasp from the rest of the priests.

Undaunted, the young man procured his other, right hand as he smiled benignly at Mr. Auckland.

"Actually, I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure. My name is Father Gaspar, the new head priest in this cathedral. And you are?"

The young man ignorantly grasped the gaping murderer's hand as he shook it with a wide smile on his face.

"I am Mr. Auckland, the richest, most powerful man in England, and if you don't move out of my way, I will be forced to make you..." Mr. Auckland stated threateningly, his hand returning once again to Charles' collar.

Although Charles was terrified of his patriarch's threat, he was unwilling to allow his potential savior to leave him to this evil man out of fear.

"Don't listen to him...you're a clergyman...he won't hurt you..." Charles pleaded, his eyes shifting from the seething face of Mr. Auckland to the kind face of Father Gaspar.

"Mr. Auckland, I'm going to have to ask you to leave..." the clergyman once again brought his hand to the one Mr. Auckland had on his victim's neck, "...without the boy."

The young man's voice and expression had gone quickly from benignity to sternness. He removed the hand of the shocked Mr. Auckland from Charles' neck, subsequently helping the helpless man gently to his feet.

Having failed to notice through his fear that Mr. Auckland still had his other hand on Mon Amis' reins, Charles' eyes once again widened in fear, this time for his beloved friend.

"Oh, thank you Father...Mon Amis is unable to claim sanctuary for himself, so I will claim it for him. He has just as much right to it as I, Father..." Charles grasped the man's hand, his other holding the clergyman's shoulders to steady his wavering feet.

The priest gazed compassionately at Charles, as he reached for Mon Amis' reins with the hand not supporting the tattered man.

"Leave the horse too, sir, and please be on your way..." the priest obviously was not fazed by Mr. Auckland's evil glare, as he threw the reins down, planning to let the horse go. Luckily, Father Gaspar was quick enough to grasp the reins before the horse even knew he had been set free.

Mr. Auckland was obviously furious, but Charles had been right when he had told the priest that even such a cruel man as Mr. Auckland did not have the gall to harm a clergyman. He did not, however, leave. Instead, he walked up to his ward, whose limp body was still being supported by the kind, brave man who had saved his life and the life of his friend.

"I'll find you, boy. You cannot escape me and you know it...I'll haunt you for the rest of what's left of your miserable life," a cruel smile formed on Mr. Auckland's face as he beheld the beaten man before him, "...that is, if you don't die beforehand from your beating last night..."

Mr. Auckland let out a roar of laughter, paying no head to the priests and worshipers around him, as he left the cathedral, his last words sending a chill down Charles' aching spine.

Unlike the other inhabitants of the church, whose expression portrayed horror and relief, Father Gaspar was angry, and as he stared at the door to the cathedral, his restrained fury was evident.

"What was he talking about, your beating last night? Don't you worry, son, you'll be safe here, I won't..." these were the last words Charles heard, the excitement of the morning having completely weakened him, and the terrifying realization that he was now a homeless, helpless, hunted man overwhelming him; now that danger had momentarily vanished out the door, Charles heard nothing more as he fainted dead away into peaceful oblivion in his savior's arms.

* * *

A/N: Tehe...next chapter to be up soon. Quasi's mom will be very involved next chapter...and this story will finally get to the point. :) 


	6. Marriage!

**YamiLPfan**: Yay, you're still reading!! I missed you for the last three chapters :) And I'm glad you hate Mr. Auckland, and yes, in some ways he is worse than Frollo, and in some ways the same. Lol. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Erin**: Hi Erin! I'm glad you're enjoying it so much!! I'll email you back in a second, I just wanted to post this LONG chapter first. :)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hunchback of Notre Dame or Quasi's mom!! I do own the rest of the characters though :)

* * *

**Marriage?!**

The weeks following the previous incident were little more than a blur to Charles, a medley of whispers, fading images, pain, and comfort.

Shortly after being taken in by the kind Father Gaspar, who had Charles kept in the church's adjoining rectory, Charles' condition went from terrible to fatal. It was discovered by a humble peasant doctor, who had been called by Father Gaspar to diagnose all that was ailing the pitiful young man, that not only was Charles beaten half to death, but the poor boy was also plagued with a dreadful, and possibly fatal illness. Infection had spread through Charles' body during the night after his beating, more than likely originating from his leg wounds, which had been newly opened after being roughly dragged across cobblestones and rocks, and had not received proper treatment as of yet.

The doctor declared that, without a doubt, after being so severely tortured and not receiving medical treatment immediately, Charles would surely die from such an illness; and for the first few days Charles spent in the rectory, every priest including Gaspar believed the same.

Food, water, sleep, and delirium: all Charles' life in the rectory consisted of; or at least, all he was aware of. The only times Charles awoke was to eat and drink, nothing else including his dignity and what was left of his pride mattering much to him. When the young man would awake, occasionally he would inquire upon the well-being of his horse, who was being given his own sanctuary in a stable near the church, but more frequently he would mumble nonsense words:

"Sanctuary...sanctuary...help...mama...help...sanctuary..."

"No...please no...help...no...no...please...no...help me..."

"No one...love...no one...mama...love...brother...no one...me...love..."

The pitiful man continued thus for days; all the while Father Gaspar looked after him like the kind, fatherly man he was. The rest of the priests, however, felt quite disinclined to protect or nurse to health the young man they had disregarded; not only did Charles' incoherent ramblings lead them to believe that the man had been possessed by the very demons that plagued their own souls, but they still held fear for Mr. Auckland, who attended Mass at that very church every Sunday with his family, and keeping the hunted boy hidden from the madman only put the rest of them in danger. Their cowardice disgusted Father Gaspar, and after a day or two, he declared that only he and a few trusted nuns were allowed to care for the boy, for fear that certain priests may give the dangerous refugee back to his unrelenting tormentor.

Every morning, Father Gaspar brought Charles his meager meal, which basically consisted of thin soup, for that was all that the ill man could keep down. The aforementioned nuns that were entrusted with the boy's safekeeping cleaned and dressed his wounds, fed him, and put freezing cloths on his head to keep his dangerously high fever down when the Father was away; whenever Father Gaspar was available to care for him, however, he sent the nuns away to care for the boy himself.

The third day of Charles' sanctuary, Father Gaspar was sure in his heart that the poor man would die in despair, for his fever had become worse, his beaten body had not healed, and his consciousness had not been regained. Shivering, moaning, and whimpering plagued the Father's ears as he watched Charles drift between sleep and unconsciousness that day, never once opening his eyes. At one point, late afternoon, the good Father thought that Charles had indeed passed away, his breathing having all but stopped and his random movements having ceased. However, just as the Father turned to leave and order a casket prepared for him, the young man's breathing returned in gasps, and Charles woke up weakly to the sight of a gentle smile shining down upon him. From that day on, it was clear that Charles would live through his torture; how long it would be until he was healed, however, was very murky indeed.

Three weeks passed, with Charles was getting stronger by the day, staying awake for longer periods of time and gaining back his right mind. He could now speak loudly and clearly, yet his vocal chords did seem to have taken quite a hit during his beating, and his voice would forever remain changed, the boyish quality gone forever. Although his face still held scars that would never disappear, and his breathing and nose would permanently be impaired, his injuries had healed for the most part. That is, the injuries on his upper body, like his arms and head, had healed.

His legs, however, were in terrible shape; even after three weeks, walking was a great feat, and it was determined that it would be a while before Charles could walk without pain or a limp again, if ever. Charles realized thankfully that although his groin had shared the brunt of Mr. Auckland's fury, it would not be impaired, and would heal to be in perfect working order.

Although Charles was fully conscious and mobile after a few weeks of rest and gentle healing, he did not have the gall nor the permission to leave his room in the rectory. Mr. Auckland relentlessly called upon Father Gaspar to release his ward back to him under penalty of imprisonment for kidnapping, not believing Gaspar's claims that the young man had died shortly after claiming sanctuary; when later asked by surrounding priests how he could dare tell such a lie in a Catholic Church, Gaspar shrugged, asked his fellow priests how they could show such cowardice and disregard for the life of one of God's children in God's own house, and proceeded to say, "We're just priests, we're hardly saints."

Needless to say, the good Father Gaspar never relented, and Charles remained safely hidden for the duration of a month in the rectory. After a month, however, Charles reluctantly realized that it was time he left the only place he was safe from his tormentor's threats.

It was not that Charles wouldn't have loved to stay forever in the cathedral; he could have easily gotten used to the boredom that came with being cooped up in the rectory, and in a few years when he was old enough, he might have become a priest, lived forever in sanctuary, and been carefree the rest of his days.

No, the reason Charles felt he should leave the church once he was back on his painful, unsteady feet, was the mere fact that he was becoming increasingly unwelcome in his sanctuary. The priests who had ignored his pleas for sanctuary a month before still looked upon him in scorn, as a danger to their very freedom and lives. Even Father Gaspar, who had been so kind to him, seemed to grow weary of hiding the young man and constantly being forced to send away his persistent pursuer, although he would never in a million years admit it.

When Charles informed his benefactor that he felt that his welcome at the church had been outstayed, and that he would be on his way the next day, Father Gaspar predictably disagreed, saying that the young man was welcome in his church as long as he needed sanctuary. Charles just simply smiled, and thanked the kind young priest for his compassion and friendship, and promised to one day return the favor if ever he was needed and could do so. Father Gaspar reluctantly conceded to let the boy go after a short quarrel, and the two prayed for the first time together in the sanctuary of the cathedral for hours, before Charles went to sleep his last night of safety in the rectory.

The next morning, as Charles roused from a restless, apprehensive sleep, he awoke to the smiling face of the youngest, bubbliest, most ignorant and kind-hearted nun he had met throughout his stay, and the only one of which he knew the name: Sister Clara.

"The Father said to give you these," she said as she handed him a pile of clothes, "they were all he had, so he didn't know if they would fit you, but he said you certainly can't go out like that..."

Charles looked down at the clothes he was currently wearing, and realized that he had neither noticed nor cared until now that the tattered and bloodstained clothes he had worn a month ago had been replaced by a simple chemise, coming to his ankles yet noticeably ripped at the sleeves and shoulders in order to fit his broad dimensions.

"How sick was I not to notice this?" Charles asked himself out loud as he fiddled with the sleeves of the garment; as he looked back up at Sister Clara, he realized that he had no clothes on under this ill-fitting chemise, and not only was he more revealed than he cared to be at the moment, he could only assume that it had been Sister Clara and her fellow nuns that had removed his men's clothing and replaced it with this...dress; a crimson blush came upon the boy's face as he grimaced and smiled sheepishly at the nun, who seemed to be undaunted and ignorant of his embarrassment. She was a nun, after all, and there had been nothing desirous in her actions; she had merely done her duty to God by nursing one of his ailing children back to health.

"Don't you want them?" Sister Clara said as she handed the clothes to Charles, who looked at them with a mixture of awe and annoyance. The garment he had been given was a clerical robe, complete with hood, which Charles was sure would be blasphemy for him, a man not of the cloth, to wear in public; also, the robe, although looked nice on a priest, would look much like a dress on a common man, and poor Charles felt rather emasculated by this entire ordeal.

"Oh...I can't wear these...I mean, their clerical robes, and I am certainly no clergyman..." Charles stopped as he saw the warm smile on Sister Clara's lips.

"This was all Father Gaspar had to give you, and he wants you to wear them until you can find your own clothes. Then when it's safe, you can bring these back," she stated bluntly as her warm smile deepened, "We will miss you here, but I hope you find happiness out there, young man."

With those final words, she exited the rectory, leaving Charles in his chemise, clerical robe in hand. Although her final words had been touching, Charles couldn't help but be annoyed, for Sister Clara could not have been much older than he, yet she had insisted since he met her that she refer to him as "young man" or "boy"; feeling once again emasculated that he seemed like a child instead of a man to women, he proceeded to take off his chemise preparing to change into the robes, after checking, of course, to make sure that no nun's wandering eyes peered at him as he stripped in the church.

As he unfolded the robe, a small object fell to the floor, a note attached to it. Charles picked up the object which turned out to be a small silver crucifix, attached to a silver chain; confused, Charles read the attached note:

* * *

"Sorry I could not be there to bid you farewell, Charles. Do not worry about the robes, they are old and will not be missed. 

Be careful, young one, for the path ahead holds many dangers. But carry Our Lord with you always, my son, and He shall protect you. Good luck, I wish you well. My door is always open to you.

Father Gaspar

* * *

Touched by the sentiment, yet rolling his eyes at the formality of the note, Charles slipped the robe over his head; although a little too long for his short stature, the robe fit Charles surprisingly well and was a step up from the small chemise he had been wearing moments ago. Putting the brown hood over his head, Charles took the crucifix in his hand, regarding it for a moment before fastening it around his neck, tucking it under the robe against his chest. 

Charles took a deep breath and clutched the crucifix around his neck; this was it, the moment Charles had been dreading. He was on his own now, he would have to find a home, a job, and some way to stay hidden from the very man who had sent him to the streets, and who was now hunting him like a dog.

Stepping out of the cathedral, leaving a relieved gaggle of priests in his wake, Charles sighed again and walked straight ahead into the crowded abyss ahead of him. Feeling securely hidden behind his hooded robe, which he was now glad the Father had given him, Charles felt somewhat confident and safe; it was not until he had walked about three blocks from the church, that a sudden thought occurred to him:

"Where the bloody hell is my horse?"

* * *

Two hours later, after having inquired about his friend at every stable within a mile of the church, Charles finally had Mon Amis once again at his side. He did not ride the beast, for his legs were still much to weak and sore to mount his horse; also, Mon Amis deserved an extended vacation after all he had done for Charles, scrapes and burns from the wild ride the horse had given him notwithstanding. 

"Alright, Mon Amis, where looks like a good place to hide?" Charles asked his horse as they stopped to take a break; Charles stopping to rest his aching legs, Mon Amis stopping to eat whatever he could find on the ground.

Charles looked around him, letting his mind wander as he let Mon Amis ponder over his question. He thought of everything that had happened in the past month: his healing at the church, being dragged behind a horse, the torture he had received from his patriarch and brother, Nadya, the gypsy camp, and...

A thought occurred to Charles that caused him to hit his forehead with frustration for not having thought of it before.

"Nadya! What a fool I've been, loafing around here only about a mile away from Mr. Auckland's house while Nadya's offer still stands. Oh, how sick I must have been to be so stupid!" Charles cried to his horse and himself as he searched for a step or something with which to mount his horse. If he was going to get to Nadya, whose camp was miles away from the richer part of town where Charles now resided, he would have to ride there, for there was no way on earth he could summon up the strength in his limping legs to walk there.

Deciding to use the steps of a wealthy bourgeois' house, and praying that the dogs wouldn't be called on him, Charles painfully mounted his horse after a few failed tries. Although he wanted to get to Nadya more than anything, if just to see her again, Charles decided against galloping Mon Amis there; his legs hurt so much even atop the horse, and Charles felt that if he was forced to put too much more pressure on them, he would surely fall off and without a horse, there was no telling what he would do. Therefore, he and Mon Amis began their slow, tedious walk to the part of town in which Nadya lived; not knowing what that part of town was called, Charles silently prayed that he'd be able to find it again.

* * *

After about three hours of riding, which would have been one if Charles hadn't realized an hour into his journey that he was heading in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go, the boy and his horse finally arrived in the less wealthy part of London. What he found there, however, made him think that finding Nadya today would be similar to finding a beautiful needle in a very colorful haystack. 

Some kind of party, or festival or something was going on today, attended by what seemed like every peasant and gypsy in London; although they seemed to be trying to make it low-key, presumably to keep noblemen and guards from knowing about it, there was much hustle and bustle going on, and Charles felt that if he hadn't been riding a horse at the moment, he would surely have been trampled by the multitude.

"Uh...excuse me, sir," Charles stated to a rather gruff-looking, heavy-set peasant as he motioned toward the festivities, "what is this?"

Seemingly debating whether to ignore the young man or answer his question, the peasant decided upon the latter after noticing Charles' clerical robes.

"This is our annual harvest festival, Father. We have one every August." the peasant stated as he began to walk away. As he did so, Charles called out to him, "Thank you, sir. But I'm not a priest I'm just..." the man had already walked away, and seeing as how explaining the robes would be far too long and complicated to recall to a total stranger, Charles decided to leave it at that. Besides, he was quite certain that impersonating a priest was some kind of religious crime or something, so...

As Charles pondered over such nonsense, a lovely vision graced his eyes, and he nearly fell from Mon Amis' back at the suddenness of his discovery.

There she was, the object of his search: Nadya. She was beautiful as ever, in a new dress that revealed her dainty ankles and petite bosom, and Charles mentally kicked himself for the unholy thoughts he was thinking at the moment as he was dressed in holy clothes.

Shaking off his shock at seeing her so suddenly, Charles became aware of her surroundings; she was in the middle of a line of women, which was separated from another line of men by a wall. At the front of the line, a man and a woman joined hands through a hole just big enough for a man's hand to go through, and walked away together. The couple could not see each other because of the wall, and most of the men and women in the line did not seem to know each other. Charles had heard of this before somewhere: hand-fasting. If he recalled correctly, it was where a man and a woman were randomly thrown together in a year long, trial marriage until the return of the next festival, where the man and woman could walk away from each other and end their matrimony.

Of course, Charles, being head over heels intrigued by this woman, found this a perfect opportunity to get her attention, and a perfect excuse to take her up on her offer to find him a place to live. Without a word, he dismounted his horse, leaving him tied to a post as he walked toward the line. As inconspicuously as he could, he counted the number of people in front of Nadya in line, which was about twenty, and headed to the male side. Just as he took his eyes off Nadya, a woman not too far ahead of her got out of line, muttering something about desperate women and how they should find a husband the hard way, leaving nineteen people in front of Nadya. Charles, not seeing this, counted out twenty men and came up to the twenty-first:

"Excuse me, but may I cut in front of you, please?" Charles stated politely.

The man might have said no, but backed away to let him through as he stared at Charles, nonplussed, appalled that a priest would get into such a line to be trial-married.

There Charles waited as two by two, each line became shorter until there was only ten in front of him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Nadya, who did not stand in line with the intention of finding a potential husband, scanned the crowd warily as her line became shorter. She was not quite sure what the line was, but it was surrounded by people, and the guard that was after her, which was the same guard from the incident a month ago, would have a difficult time finding her in such confusion. Women, being fickle as they are, would come and go from the line, and Nadya let any woman who wished to cut in front of her do so. Sometimes there would be twenty girls in front of her, sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen, it just depended on the time.

* * *

Charles continued to wait, suddenly feeling self-conscious that he was dressed in none-too-flattering robes, and aware for the first time how uncomely his face must look, what with the scars and deviated septum. Taking a deep breath, he prayed she wouldn't be repulsed by his current appearance.

* * *

The guard had spotted Nadya as the woman in front of her went to grab the hand of her trial husband; it was then that Nadya realized what line she had gotten herself into. She also realized that she was the only gypsy woman in line, and that every man on the other side of that wall was more than likely an Englishman. As the guard started riding his horse toward her, Nadya struggled to find an opening in the crowd to push her way out of line and run.

* * *

It was Charles' turn; the poor man was sweating up a storm as he stuck one arm through the hole, barely big enough for his over-sized hand.

* * *

Nadya's turn had come, and she had yet to find an opening in the multitude to run. The guard was coming closer as a man's hand came through the hole bore into the wall; she looked at the hand and realized that it was, as predicted, a hand of an Englishman, and Nadya knew it was time for her to get out of line, opening in the crowd or not. As she was about to run, she happened to glance back at the mysterious hand, and as she studied it more closely, her flight was halted; the hand was large, as was the forearm it was attached to, both covered in sweat and dirt. It was not those details, however, that made Nadya stop in her tracks, it was something on the hand and arm, an abnormality; a large scar ran from the mystery man's left hand to his forearm, and Nadya stared at it in confusion, eyes wide and mouth agape. What was Charles doing in such a line? Why was he even here? She had not told him of this festival, although she had thought about it, and yet this had to be him; there could be no identical scar to the hideous one that adorned Charles' hand and arm. Nadya looked from the hand to the crowd, where the unrelenting guard was coming closer and closer, his horse nearing her place in line. It would only be a matter of seconds before the horrid man got to her, and she could not run forever. 

It was then that Nadya got an idea, a somewhat conniving, desperate idea. Without thinking, and before she could convince herself that this was a terrible idea, she grabbed the hand before her as the administrator of the hand-fasting pronounced them temporary husband and wife.

* * *

Charles was all but elated as he felt petite fingers grasp his own, much larger, hand. He had no doubt that the woman holding his hand was Nadya, and luckily for him, it was; Charles would never know how close he came to being married to some other woman, and would never really know just how fate had smiled upon him that day. 

As they were pushed forward from behind the wall in order to move the line along, Charles and Nadya came face to face for the first time in a month. Charles merely smiled sheepishly, hoping that she would be happy that they had been married, and started thinking of a spiel about how fate had brought them together.

Nadya, however, stared at Charles for a few moments, eyes wide; the man who had looked so much like a boy only a month ago seemed to have aged ten years since she last spoke with him; his eyes were sad and tired, even through his smile, and his mind and body seemed utterly worn out. The gypsy girl had not much time to regard him, however, for she suddenly felt a cold hand grasp her shoulder. Turning around, she saw it was the offending guard from before, and as quickly as he had grasped her, she yanked her shoulder away and hid behind Charles, whose expression had quickly gone from one of timidity to one of sheer confusion. As he looked up into the face of the guard, who he could have sworn he had met before, he suddenly became aware of what he had just done; he had married a gypsy, which was considered a crime by both Englishmen and gypsies themselves, fake marriage or not.

"Uh...hello officer...how are you this fine evening?" Charles stated with a fake grin, as Nadya rolled her eyes from behind his back.

Now, if the reader is to understand just how much Charles had changed physically after his beating, he need only know two facts: one was that the officer, although he felt that he had seen Charles before, could never in a hundred years place this man as the one who had led him astray in his chase after the very gypsy girl he protected now. The second was that this officer, who had referred to Charles as "boy" a month ago, now had fear in his eyes as he talked to the young man before him.

"F-father, forgive me, but that girl is a c-c-criminal and she must be a-a-arrested now," the officer said shakily, mistaking Charles for a priest as so many people that day had done; this officer was quite religious and superstitious, and believed whole-heartily that this priest had power over his soul at this moment.

As both Charles and Nadya stared, confused, at the officer, Charles looked down at his clerical robes, and rolling his eyes, decided to take advantage of this mistake.

"It's quite alright, my son. I was just going to exorcise...I mean convert her...so there will be no need to take her in," Charles said, stifling a laugh. Nadya, however, seemed quite insulted and indignant.

"Oh, but Father, I have direct orders from..." the officer began.

"Take her to jail, and...I shall damn your soul for all eternity," Charles said, earning a shocked, fearful look from the guard. He needed say no more, for the officer merely gave him a nod and a "good luck, Father," regarding his exorcism of the girl, and rode off into the crowd.

Charles let out a short, loud laugh as he turned toward Nadya, who looked at him with annoyance, her hands placed firmly on her hips.

Charles seemed floored by her reaction, "What?! I was just..."

"...Going to exorcise me?!" Nadya finished for him, an angry glare on her face.

"What..I...he...look, it made him go away, didn't it?" the young man let out an exasperated groan, "So ungrateful...I'll never understand you gyp..." Charles stopped as he noticed that Nadya was on the verge of slapping him senseless, "..you..I'll never understand you, Nadya. I save your freedom and probably life twice and you act so ungrateful. I'll never understand YOU!" Charles enunciated each word clearly, covering up the mistake he almost made for the second time.

"That's what I thought you said," Nadya stated with a smirk, "And I am grateful...John, was it?"

Insulted that she would forget his name so easily when he could never forget hers if he tried, it was Charles' turn to put his hand on his hips and bore his own piercing glare through her.

"That's not even kind of close. My name is Charles, not John. Honestly, you'd think you'd know your own husband's name..."

"My husband?! What, because I grabbed your hand a second ago? That hand-fasting thing means absolutely nothing, especially to a gypsy. Like I would marry an Englishman! I am not your wife, and you are not my husband, do I make myself clear?"

If a bystander had been watching the pair from afar, he probably would have thought that they actually were a married couple, as both of them argued back and forth, hands on hips and eyes boring into the other's.

"Besides..." she continued just as Charles was about to speak, "didn't you take some kind of vow of celibacy or something." She pointed to his clerical robes, which she would demand an explanation for later, if she saw him again after today.

Charles looked down at his clothes, and glared, annoyed, back at Nadya and let out an exasperated groan.

"No...I'm not...these aren't...no, I am fully free to have s- marry... whomsoever I choose," Charles stated, trying to mask the unholy thoughts that still plagued his mind, even in his annoyance.

Nadya let out a laugh, the same beautiful, sweet laugh as before.

"Well, you'll have to explain all of this to me later," she said as she looked him up and down, from his broken nose to his priest's robes. He looked down at his feet with a resigned sigh; she had to admit, he was quite adorable when he wasn't being an idiot.

"I promise I'll explain all of this later, Nadya...after you do me a small favor. I mean, I'm your fake husband, right? And even if I'm not, I am your valiant rescuer..twice..and I believe you do owe me a favor..." Charles smirked at Nadya's suspicious gaze; she prayed that he was as sweet as he seemed, and wasn't going to want her body, for she would hate to have to kill the man who had rescued her today.

"What kind of favor, Charles?" she asked through gritted teeth, warning him not to say anything stupid, as was his unfortunate habit.

"Well, uh, you know how you made that offer to find me a place to stay if I ever left my home..." Charles stated delicately, his eyes focused on his shoes.

"Yes?" Nadya stated, instantly regretting having ever made that offer. It wasn't as if she expected to ever see him again.

"Well...how about I take you up on that offer...now," Charles said with a shy smile, as he gazed into the annoyed yet beautiful eyes of his new, temporary wife.

* * *

Review!! I will love you forever:) I like feedback, as long as it's not flames... 


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